Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
Somebody said that. And nothing has ever been more true.
We make grand stories out of nothing. Put huge significant on events that in the scheme of things don’t matter. We make ourselves the protagonists of tragedy. Then we write ourselves the happy ending we want to deserve.
It’s a delusion, in a way. Wish fulfillment. But romanticizing things doesn’t change the truth of what happened.
After all, blood has never been beautiful; it’s just been red.