For What Is- What Is Art, If Not The Blood Of Our Souls

You're rude

i'm the sweetest person wdym

it's been in the pipeline for a while so i got around to replying to it now actually

ohh okay thought we were in the same board haha. best of luck to you too!! you'll do great i'm sure of it <33

(also realised i wasn't following you?? weird. anyway hope it's okay to send asks here)

we are not in the same board if it helps

some people say they wish the adventures they had were real and that they lament the lack of it and i cannot help but think if it were real i would not survive and maybe i am only meant to tell the stories that they live and when brick heck said "i think there are two types of people: those who are meant to live, and those who are meant to read about them, and i am the latter"

maybe i am the latter

A Waltz of Powers

Love Hurts as Nothing Else

Hearts lie heavy,

Always weighted down,

By the grief, and love, and beauty,

A gentle sunrise on a small town.

So has Syrae's,

He knows no love without pain, or hurt

For him, it is eternal.

No one without the other.

A rainstorm on a winter night,

Fog clouding eyes on hills,

Tears, flowing, a constant stream,

That is how he lives his years,

A nightmare or a hellish daydream.

The stream never ceases,

Relenting only when the other stream,

The stream of power

Is let loose,

With its wake of destruction to follow.

The world is fortunate the stream lies in his hands,

For it would long have been dust,

If it was any other.

A Chance at Recklessness

A landscape is called barren,

When it lies devoid of life.

If that were true, Autumn would be no less.

A person whose soul was more extreme

Than the driest desert,

Or the highest peak.

In a world of beauty to the eye,

She is blind,

For nothing can be beautiful that is not appreciated

And nothing can be appreciated that does not deserve it.

Autumn is loath to believe anything does.

Many objects are loved, in this world,

As a soft rainbow in a sunny sky,

A chirp from a bird in a quiet night,

Or a gentle breeze in the midst of summer.

None appeal, to the stone that is her heart,

She would simply call a diamond,

For what beauty can the most beautiful object see,

When there is nothing more so than itself?

Love From the Heartless

There has never been a time,

Where Autumn and Syrae

Have not loved each other.

It is an absolute truth.

Does the sun rise each day,

At dawn, as clockwork?

It would be foolish to ask,

As it is known, that it does.

Does water quench thirst?

Or fill the sea?

Does a lion hunt a deer?

Nobody would dare to ask.

It is the same, with the two of them,

Because there has never been a time,

When Autumn has not been at Syrae's side,

And he at hers,

It is known.

Most Stories Never Wish to Begin

They who are known,

they who are envied,

For being known from a story,

Are often envious of those not.

It is rarely a boon to be seen,

To be known in such a way,

That a mere mention of your name evokes the thought of you.

Oh, to be forgotten.

Syrae desires for joy,

Good, in the world.

There is rarely ever enough,

Through his eyes,

And all he can ever do is try,

Him against evil.

It feels so, that it is only ever him.

The force of good has always been too small,

Yet it oft prevails,

So is the force of it.

So is its power.

So is his.

The Inevitability of Inevitability

As inevitable the victory of the kind is,

So is the rise of cruel.

It is as thorns on roses,

Always present, ready to prick,

Only sated with the taste of blood,

No lesser than a bloodthirsty beast.

And so, however much so Syrae would wish otherwise,

It rises.

Much to his disappointment, and chagrin,

It grows.

And his is the only power strong enough.

Souls, and hearts, full of life,

Laughter and joy and smiles,

Are what he prizes most,

Light prevailing over darkness.

That is the cost of being kind,

Kindness tested in forges with more heat than the sun,

And more difficult than wars,

For if there a hundred swords,

Made of the strongest iron,

Not one will refrain from drawing blood,

None, but a human,

Forged in no furnace,

But the furnace of life.

Destruction, Unimpeded

It is usual for life to grow,

Thrive, in its settlements,

Fester, until it simply is,

The place inseparable from the living.

And just as usual for it to be destroyed.

But even the tallest of trees,

Is no adversary,

For it is but ash in the wind,

Simply a victim to flames blazing,

Crawling up its bark.

Fire makes its own path,

Burning through even the thickest of bushes,

And the toughest of trees.

It has no opponent strong enough to withstand its power,

None powerful enough to face it down.

But one crafty enough, its victory over the flames guaranteed,

A flood to the ignited fuel,

But when it is not present,

Nothing can survive its wrath.

And as half the world burns down,

The water too far to attempt extinguishing,

Syrae's heart hurts.

It hurts too much.

Guilt and blame,

Regret flaming in his heart,

For even if his stream was no flood,

It was the best there was. He was the best there was.

And he failed.

The Fierceness of Betrayal

Oft, swords in the back sink in deep to the hilt,

Blood spews from the chest, tears from the heart,

Until there are no more tears to cry.

Regret is often strongest during this time,

As is anger,

For how would one feel,

To turn eyes to a hand holding a dagger,

Sunken deep into flesh,

To see a smile made stronger by love,

Love they had given themselves.

Syrae knows not,

Of the pain heading his way,

The tears his eyes are yet to shed,

The blood he wishes he had shed from his own chest,

A pound of flesh he would pay,

If only to save hundreds.

Regret to flare of his own ignorance,

And anger of the loss of trust,

Both not far in his future,

Eyes to see a familiar conniving smirk,

Throat to gasp at the surprise.

Sweet, Sweet Blood

Autumn wishes, against all hope or luck,

That it could not be so,

That she did not feel so.

But she did.

It was a quaint pleasure,

To sink a blade into deep flesh,

See a drop of blood dribble out,

And then a flood pour through.

The joy on her face shone bright,

The eyes twinkling with sharp sadism,

For it was only her who smiled,

As the screams rung through the night.

Unrelenting.

It was only when she tired of smiling,

That she set him on fire.

Her stream of fire. As was Syrae's of water.

A Waltz of Powers

They dance for hours on end,

Her flames a stinging barb into his life,

A stark warning of death,

One he cannot ignore.

He stands strong,

His face tinged with weariness and despair,

For how do you unleash upon one that you have loved,

That you have given your heart to,

That you have trusted?

She harbours no such fear,

No such regard as he does.

Who is the better person,

The one with a conscience,

Or the one without?

For if the latter wins,

They do so without honour,

But in the end,

Is honour really as important as life?

Or is it nothing but dust in the face of the enormity of life,

The possibilities it holds,

The beauty it encompasses?

They waltz for hours,

Each step a perfect match,

Each move directly matched by the other,

A waltz to be admired, to be watched.

A waltz of powers.

i'm holding you to that orange !!!

new pfp ❓️❓️ ORANGE ❓️❓️❓️❓️

I've had a Halloween matching pfp since the last 2 or 3 years now so i figured I should change it at Some point 😭

i hate everything but also me and i love me? and i am too much for me to handle and i am rash and i think too much i think too less i don't know how to think i don't know how to breathe this is it this is my stupidest mistake i cannot make one stupider yet i just did i cannot seem to stop disappointing myself i cannot seem to stop worrying

change

the first part of changing yourself for the better is finding out the parts of yourself that you wish to improve on, and accepting them (and yourself) as they are. you can never be perfect, and that's okay. i've heard these sentences hundreds of times from different self-help sources, but you only realise that it's true when you actually feel it. you cannot hate yourself into being a better person. this ties into the conversations i've had about diets, and my personal belief that if you simply launch yourself into a hard diet (no scope for error, guilt when you can't adhere to the rules), a rebound is inevitable. love yourself, and change to a you that you wish to be (without hating the now). there's no better way. there's none healthier.

i've changed enormously over the past three years, and i don't believe i would recognise me of before too strongly, and i couldn't have done it alone. as i thanked kriti for the part she's played in this, she just told me: “it's just friendship”, and i'm always reminded of the massive debt we would owe our friends if they weren't all strictly non-transactional. i wouldn't have changed this much without my friends, and i would definitely not be the me i am. i hate all my friends that will call me out in an instant if i say something wrong, and yet i would be nowhere about them. there's no space for my ego there.

i can tally up my progress over the past three years, and almost none of it is academic. true, i did learn one very big thing: how to love what i learn, but the seeds for that already lived in me, germinating whenever i had the fortune of a good subject or a good teacher. i have learned much, much more about everything outside the classroom, challenging my understandings and beliefs. at the end of the day, a holistic me is who will be there to deal with the world. i hope i've done well with him. i hope he never stops learning how to live.

meditation media

even though it's so inextricably linked to spirituality in the way i perceived it at first, i've begun to wonder of meditation and how i'm performing it. up till recently, it'd been a while since i'd been lost in a piece of art, the way i used to spend most of my time as a kid: buried in a book, and it's beginning to happen again, to my relief. art just horrifying enough (requiem for a dream) or perplexing enough (it's what's inside) or just weird (kinds of kindness) have been engaging in a sense i'd forgotten how to feel.

i'd call engaging with such art a weaker form of meditation, provided a certain degree of 'artiness' to the art as well. we see parts of ourselves in characters we see, and it teaches us things about us. would i have felt the same paralysing fear arjun felt on the battlefield? very likely, indeed. would even the geeta have helped me overcome it, could i have killed family for dharma? who knows! i was part of a conversation about reading the mahabharat at a certain stage of life (not mine), and the introspection it provides you with through the characters.

i have learned many things about me through art, it is awfully convenient to have people who are very good at verbalising feelings do the job for you. even though there is nothing new under the sun, and to a certain extent, i agree, there's always a new combination of existing stories that finds a nerve you didn't know existed. the bones may be the same, but the skin always morphs and changes and adds a certain quasi-citrus freshness to any story. maybe one day i'll graduate to actually introspecting, but for now, i'm very thankful for art for being my gandalf through middle earth.

my heart is lost adrift in a sea far from land oh, what I would give to float to a beach astray

there lies no comfort here out in the cold vastness of the water oh, what i would give to find a land to lay on

shouts to the sky are futile no god rescues me but to be honest anyone who would save me would be no less

friendly reminder that you're really powerful

you can make people smile just by complimenting them, you can make them laugh by telling them a good joke, you can love and what really is more powerful than all this? you can make someone's day by telling them they're pretty you can make them happy in so many ways you're so powerful

wield that power wisely, my sweethearts

i love you