The Happy Meme day 2

The rules are this: For the next 8 days you have to post something that made you happy that day.

Day #2: The way it feels when you wake up and stretch and try to settle back in and somehow manage to find the absolute most comfy positioning EVER of pillows and self and S.O. and fall back asleep for another hour or three.

[PtM] 12.2 Sinner lyrics

Bend me shape me misdirect me
It's all the same to me

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You were never meant to be a soldier.

You think about it sometimes. Not for very long because it doesn’t do much good. It’s pointless, thinking about what might’ve been. But the wandering minds rarely follow or listen to reason, and so you wonder, what you could’ve been, what you should’ve been.

You would never have been chosen if not for Buffy’s plan, Willow’s spell. You were likely in the clear, one of the last in line, behind all the younger, fresher potentials. It’s odd to think of, isn’t it? Twenty five years old and you were well past middle aged, in Slayer years.

You should hate them for that, shouldn’t you? For forcing you into this, for making you what you are? At least a little bit. You could never manage to find it in yourself, though, because what choice did they have? It does as little good to be angry at them as it does to wonder about your potential, your fate.

You were not strong enough for this. Hard enough for this. You struggled with it. You swore it would not change you, that you would not let it change you. You would remain the same as you’d always been, you would not let a destiny you should’ve never had take apart who you were.

You failed.

You look at old pictures, knowing that it’s your face and your eyes and your smile, but that’s no longer the girl that stares back at you from the mirror. Once your features were softer, rounder, warmer. Now they're thinner, angular, hard somehow. You changed. You had to, to keep going. You had to harden to be able to live in the world that sprang up around you, toughen up, let calluses form over your heart. You didn’t have any other choice.

You were never meant to be a soldier, a warrior, a fighter. It used to break you to have to take life in any form, even knowing that the things you were killing were already dead, but how little life means to you now, how easily you can overlook and brush off the sins you used to rush to a confessional and beg forgiveness for.

You don’t know what you’ve been made into. Worse, you no longer care.

In the end, none of it means anything.