It seems Venus has succeeded again. Her. Annabeth. The nerve of a divine deity, you would think they knew better; maybe they do? Perhaps it's their hubris?

I believe my birth, not where but when under her swooning charm and charisma of Venus herself purposefully engineering me in this fashion. Sitting on her shell decorated in seafoam--gazing at her children, calling them: 'My beautiful stories.'

Her word proves valid; love and war accompany one another, one cannot exist without the other. Uttering these tragic letters, forming these words at the base of my lips, the cryptic language of conflict shapes within her. Divine love ever so pure can seem unkind.

Conflicted between the heart and internal war proving right as they fuel the fire of emotions and bask in the tears of the broken hearted. Love proves difficult for a child of wits to cope with when logic comprehends none of it; passion rides on impulse, and she's as stoically mysterious as she is kind.

"Blessed mother, is my life bound for nothing more then heartache and folly spiraled with inner pain? Am I destined for realization and giving, giving as I receive nothing but a hollow heart perceiving nothing else but endless war?"

Is there no end, no peace? Glorious love of mine do tell, do you too bear the celestial stamp? Forcibly destined with a predisposition to suffer and fizzle when doing what you were created to do. How did it come to this and the fervent love your heart cannot seem to comprehend? A mind as gorgeous as yours, born from the purest of thoughts expresses what the spirit yearns to grasp is the burden you must endure, the consequence for the world's wisdom with eyes of blue brilliance that bathe all they see with sheer virtue.

O' dearest Annabeth, with thy skin so soft and pale under rays of the sun, shining brighter than the world's stars, beautifully transcending Venus herself. "Annabeth, eyes ever so full of wonder and lust for knowledge help me to bring an end to the war cries that constantly berate me; as I know, the war cries plague you in turn; screaming for denied unity. Bring into light the angelic smile, gifted to the world when your soul reaches further in her mastery; the smile that ignites my love."

"Sorry dear, I must disappear," she uttered. "You are correct in saying war runs deep within my veins; they scream for attention, though, the mental fog dictates otherwise. We are nothing but beings of contrast."

I thought that hope would come, but you're not here—only in dreams that haunt me so bittersweetly. Riddle me of anticipation through intricate paintings each evening take me back to the night we met. So I might admire both my blessing and my curse.

I am nothing but another story.