The Past Beats Inside Me Like A Second Heart.

“ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 , 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑 ?  are they reveling in bliss, or do they agonize? “ // @asterites

Charlotte Brontë, from Villette

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍  ;  x.

𝐀 𝐕𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄.    indeed, to wrestle fate ferociously, with denial riddled by intensity ;  to belabor, and repeat, and reiterate the possibilities  —  what else was more human, so brazenly natural, than this ?  within such matters she only could but come to the conclusion that : while you gained in humanity, wayward angel that you were, she must have lost her own on the way, somewhere at the wake of forlorn sites and behind the morning fog which hovered each collapsed civilization.  that, or she was driven by naught more than cowardice, feigning conviction.  and what conviction had any meaning within a firmly clenched, divine fist, if that same hand could soften within another’s grasp ?  the aether of creation touching the moon.  she has been situated into the hollows of memory like this before. a blend of almosts, the nevers and desires, all the same.  few centuries ago, beneath the khaenri’ahn vault.    “ as always so humble, aren’t you ?  if i am to permit myself to indulge in nostalgia, so should you allow yourself a little more self-recognition.  would that not sound like an agreeable deal ?  ”    a justified validation.  sincere, too, certainly.  but with a smile, and a response via a most tender tug of your hands, she shaped a distraction.  a distraction from marred lands, from cold dull sands, from selenic caters unbeknownst to the average beholder.  face to face, she’d drawn you closer for a sweet peck against the cheek.   “  though you faltered, you survived all of it.  many a man would not emerge from despair again. underestimate yourself not. ” // @reginrokkr

  *  //  𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐊𝐑​ .

Melancholia has cruel tendencies of engendering grief at its worst. While Dáinsleif insists that too much time has past for him to remember his youngest years, he is no stranger of that sentiment. Of times when he did not know any better and this world wasn’t as grotesque. Of times where fantasies of the acceptance of a romance long gone that do not pertain to him— alas, they still seeped through his senses as if they were his own. If only he reminisced any at all. ❝I would not.❞ The pain that emanates from the lunar sacredness before him failed to go unperceived by him. Though his soul would say otherwise, there is naught but sorrow all that comes from reliving the past— the memories. For better or for worse, Dáinsleif is an expert of reliving until shattering himself whole. ❝It is human to desire for something that was better in one’s life.❞ Ah, but the duality that is so palpable in her words pains him to the very core. Pray tell, child of the moon. Were you given a chance to choose, what would it be? Your past of that whom you are meant to be? ❝…Tell me. Would you find any solace if you could pursue any of that which you seek from your past?❞

𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐇 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘.    it waited patiently to cleave apart those dimensions and detach her from impossibilities.  yet, the waking dreams were unrestrained, and the wish as endless as the slumber of the cold aria moon.  lofty, and mystical, and strange.  she presumed it came with age, old and weathered as she was, a forsaken temple of paled limestone.  while, yes, we can call it all ‘human desire’, which at first it was — regardless, she must have been transcending such, if personal longings and conceptualizations of a wistful god fashioned her to a woman-clutter of contradictions.    “ solace ?  that’s very uncertain.  perchance, it could temporarily numb the sorrow with ‘what if’s’, but are such things not prone to repetition ?  do they not worsen it all ?  you know this better than any other. “    how long did it haunt her to intermingle and blend with other losses ?  where did they end and she begin ?  for how long would she wander both asleep and awake like an avatar, intoxicated by too much lunacy to bear ?    “ whether that which was lost could return to us, or we return to it, eventually we would lose it again.  i might not be strong enough to endure it many more times after piecing myself together.  i am... not like you, dáinsleif. ”

Insp.

Happy birthday to this sweetheart, ravuxnoxfleurett ~

𝐆𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐂 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 , 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄 , 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐅𝐅 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓.    a specter fragment transcending beyond gaia's memoria, she should not be perceivable and, of course, you noticed this not.  alike any other maiden among the living was she so meekly approached ;  her and her canine companions, harbingers of a promised place.  without the almost-touch upon the dark hound would its ears perk in anticipation, and she so encouragingly gestured for affirmation.    " of course, little one, you may.  it appears he likes you.  his name is umbra. “ curiosity piqued for the mere fact of this exchange, she rarely believed in pure happenstance.

@moonichor / have a cute thing you didn't ask for.

Almost too happily, the child starts to reach out towards the unfamiliar dog she spots, only to pull her hand back before her fingers reach soft fur.

Almost shyly, she seeks some approval in doing so with a simple question.

"Hey miss...? Is it okay to pet your doggy...?"

is the moon made out of cheese

yes, mozzarella specifically.

* 𝐎𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑 , 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 .

@epokhas ( kazuhira ) sent bitter love to the sis.

𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐗 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 , 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 : the act of peeling oranges for someone, the act of consideration for her, but the orange was not quite ripe, and its flavor, sour. this abstract and calloused kind of adoration, peppered with your passionate protection, wrapping around its embittered nexus, it grew with time. paradoxically. it reminded her of oceanic love, old and containing all its abominations, making room for more unlovable monsters. sulfur, gun-powder, the phlebotomy of oils and fossil fuels spilled into each tide promising its back and forth, machismo in its ebbs, the flow of empty-carved flatteries. pollution propped up each huff and puff from your pouting mouth. a pouting mouth that did not articulate what it meant. it just sighed for your false messiah and the heavens fell mute to his self-fulfilling prophecy. self-imposing, self-mongering, like any other repetitive promise delivered by fallacious prophets. ‘ but it is alright. ’ her musings withered to a whisper. the flutter of her lashes and lax shape of her brows brimmed with an exhausted patience. it was deathless almost, dead and undead, a worn anchor settled within a bottomless puddle of liquid tar. tar that oozed from the throat, choking on its nightmares, on the rot of eaten snakes, on the smoke sucked from another's lung.  ‘ i am just as crude inside ’ you were not blind to her ugly, unsalvageable interiors, the thing she carried within. the thing that dried all her tears, all her humanness twisting to a deformed organ. removable when dysfunctional. it was a thing not dissimilar from that which you stubbornly refused to extract. but with its festering could come collapse. she must not forget the frail ripples of the sea, how the slightest shake could make or break it.  “ i wish i could take your pain sometimes. your bitterness. i know you wouldn't forgive me if i did. but you have not forgiven me for other things, so it would make little difference. " her hand, emitting unwanted comfort, rested upon your clenched fist. cruel tenderness irritated upon the fuss. she did not mind how rough it was against her mellow touch. it was still old love. oceanic, salty and bitter. weathered smooth by its clashing waves. it was still the peeling of oranges. " i'm sorry. i always say something inappropriate, don't i ? " some shred of your bitterness must have rubbed off on me.

1. “The Super Blood Wolf Moon is seen beside statues in Brussels.”

2. “The moon is seen beside a quadriga on the top of the Cinquantenaire arch during a total lunar eclipse known as the "Super Blood Wolf Moon", in Brussels. Photo: Reuters.”

* 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 . // @re-no

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 , 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐓 , 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐒 , 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒.    it was always the trails of her fingerprints, evidence of applying the remedies upon open wounds crying another resin’s ooze.  always sitting close and being accompanied by herbal scents or alcohol bottles.  nursing was her own love language.  adore her, adorn her with the stains of your regret, the dried smear of radiant spider-lily bloom.  by her sneaky beneficence did honey-gold glisten all over the sullying hues, forced itself onto your pallor with a warmth that, she had forgotten, would prompt your outlines to instinctively jolt.  ‘ ey, luna ! ‘  you blurted out, your treated shoulder flinched, your spine tensed up in a straight line, your brain rang the alarm for what careless thing she attempted.  ‘ i told you not to do that. ‘  and she blinked thrice, pursed her lips in surprise, chuckled then, picturing your pout turned towards the wall, away from her, away from the selfless creature she was supposed to portray.  

and it’s been difficult to look at, has it not ?  difficult to refuse it, to disdain it.  that terrible, angelic, woe-devouring thing that would conveniently not memorize your wishes.  you, at her mercy, and she possessed too easy an unspeakable power, unnatural but right just how it should be and how it always was.  it was always the patching, the undressing and dressing of a burning spot, the mercy at which the beast growled beneath her hands caressing the beauty marks.  “ oh, pray forgive me.  a force of habit, you know.  it is not easy to keep in mind that you’d prefer to suffer and complain. ”  all the remark in good jest, but it failed at convincingly delivering the actual apology.  ( please, turn to me again when all is said and done, i did not mean it.  )  

would you keep your anger in your mouth for the next hour, for the rest of the day, had she succeeded to take your pain ?  why were you so greedy with it, what did you hoard it for ?  hurt was no treasure, it was just hurt.  or was the treasure golden and you did not want it ?  never one to be able to rationalize the agreement between you and her, the side-note embedded between the lines, she simply sighed and kept tending to the cuts serving as the cause of refuge sought in the most empty inn to be booked within the next radius of a mile.  the sun now hung low to the point it dimmed out the reminders.  she raised from the couch and played god, the candlewick on, the darkness off.  she sat back again behind the subject who did not ask for more miracles, and after brief inspection of her hard work would a larger band aid be seized, planted over the marrings.  the long pause nestled within the dialogue fell apart with a delayed answer, whispering  ‘ it’s not about that. ’  and she, smiling, said :  “ i know …  i know. ” of course. of course, it's not about that. it's you not wanting her to hurt. it's you wanting the hurt to be a one-way-street.

we have known it as second nature to this woe-devouring thing for her to adore and be adored.  in truth, it frightened her to not see the limits of it.  it frightened her to have seen it in the spilt blood she dreamed of, it frightened her to see so much red that was both hers, on paper, and not.  it frightened her so much she would let her lips sink to your pain and hurt and ached to still take it but — she kissed it worse, instead.  she hurt you more, and would keep hurting you and realized what she had done, realized that the stain of regret would've always been red, oozing from the patch, limbs stitched together, her cold cheek pressed against your shoulder-blade, her heart slipping from her open mouth.  “ it won’t happen again. ” 

please, turn to face me, will you ?  even when i lie.