a little write up after three cigarettes at 1 am, haven't written in a while bcs of exams and other stuff
tw (??) : dark themes (again, ??)
[ gif : bungou stray dogs, akutagawa ryuunouske ]
There's a certain untapped beauty in the sidelines, a sort of sinster poetic gem that has been hidden away ever since it was birthed. A darkness, that does not engulf nor does it lurk, it simply pircks, like a pin, slightly, and if one has luck on their side they shall be blessed with a drop of blood, if not then they shall feel a sting, that lasts exactly half a millisecond, and then they are greeted by the same old sunlight, devoid of any joy or sadness, devoid of any depth.
I gaze too often at said sidelines, but unlike the abyss or anything resembling a grueling blackhole which blindly eats away at whatever falls on it's path, in it's own selfish pace it crunches the bones and sticks and gulps it all, it's hunger remaining insatiable; it does not gaze back. In fact, it does not recognise me, barely acknowledges me. And I like a fool, ache to dig deep, to slowly pick away at it's chapped skin and unkempt, thinning hair, I long to dismember it and trail my fingers from the valves in it's veins to the hardened skin on it's feet. I desire to find meaning, because I am afraid of it, perhaps because I am yet to wrap my head around it, perhaps because beneath all the organs and fluid, there truly resides nothing.
Sometimes, it takes the shape of a lover, and in theory it is the epitome of romance, but only in theory. Other times it takes the shape of a vague and, profoundly useless idea that lingers around and plays with the tiny bumps on my arm, not giving me anything more and not taking anything less.
Then there is the other side, littered with golden and silver specks and orbs of instability and distress. Most of the people I know walk along that side, though they are oblivious of their own tragic excellence. Almost delusional, either believing they are mediocre at best, or that they are a reincarnation of the Great God, and blessed they are; they bleed in heaps. A constant conflict between their ego and their lack of a self esteem or something similar. They hang their heads down and look up only when the noose tied around their necks tugs at the trachea with a bit more force than anticipated. They are idiots, but tragically excellent nonetheless.
And finally, I. Who walk neither of those sides. And others like me, huddled somewhere in the pockets located at the deepest corner of the Earth. We, who watch and drown in our own assumed loneliness and despair, who cannot be cruel nor kind, who are not dull yet unable to emit any lusture.
We, who are imitations.
A cheap and uninformed mockery of the world we perceive with our own worthless eyes.
We wish for our pain to be seen, and to be heard.
By one, by thousands, by millions.
I have been told, by my creators, my doctors and occasionally the people who I am supposed to hold dear, that the tears I shed are clumsily carved from the lungs of an infected crocodile. That I, gaze too often at the sidelines, and am foolish to dig an already empty pit.
I, who call the golden instability and silver distress idiots, am in fact, the truer idiot. I who lay down this system of opposing sides, belong to none.
I am to be cured of this ireelvancy.
I am to be turned either into a man who walks down the hallway of a museum, stoic and unwavering, deducing the value in someone else's sweat, or, into a breeder, producing offsprings who I will then proceed to, without fail, keep under my wing for eighteen years hoping they do not turn into me.
I am an imitation, a cheap and uninformed one. Caliming to walk no sides yet dipping my feet simultaneously into both. Even the exceptions, even the paradoxes, even the oxymorons. And the pain that I feel does not exist.
There is an untapped beauty in the sidelines, then there is the other side, and finally I, who walk neither of those sides.
What is to become of me? What is left of the time that I have? What is the defining agenda or underlying purpose?
There is none.
You see : I am just an imitation.
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i think i have this disease where if i dont post crude doodles of characters from shit that was popular in the early 2010′s ill mentally decompose
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Three Prostitutes of Wakafune-ya House: Shiratsuyu, Isono and Isoji, Chōki, c. 1794, Minneapolis Institute of Art: Japanese and Korean Art
Size: 14 5/8 x 9 5/8 in. (37.2 x 24.5 cm) (image) 14 5/8 x 10 1/8 in. (37.2 x 25.7 cm) (sheet) 22 1/16 x 18 in. (56 x 45.7 cm) (mat)
Medium: Woodblock print (nishiki-e); ink and color on paper
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a miniscule wave of sound particles makes its way to my ear, and lingers for a while longer than its allowed to.
a constant dripping of a leaking tap, and with each drop i fall a little deeper,
the sink now a bloddied mess by a massacre of my own eventual madness.
and my soul, evaporting slowly; evaporting tenderly.
would it be improper of me to plunge my fingers into my eye socket and dig it deep enough to dismantle my iris?
like the yolk on a lukewarm sunny side up gently falls apart,
like the river flows in tranquility, even with its impurities it flows so carelessly,
like my mind which wanders aimlessly in the crevices of a world so obviously fictitious.
would it be improper for me to do what i truly desire?
a tremble that courses through my brain causes the world grows silent,
except for the dripping, the constant dripping of a leaking tap,
a fine show orchestrated specifically for me, in an empty auditorium,
and the air that i took for granted, now spiked with venom,
an iron scent, and a theoretically insatiable itch,
and evaporation, tender evaporation.
but perhaps i would prefer to stay immobile for a second, gambling away my assests to stay bound just for a second.
a thread of rationale that i oh so pathetically hold on to, grasping desperately at the fibre that comes loose on the ends,
to everyone i love and the mighty beasts which lurk in the heavens,
i hope it dawns upon you, that i truly do want to stay, for a second longer.
and from my own melting metaphorical prison, i demand an apology, for the miniscule wave of sound particles, penetrating through my skull.
it simply is inappropriate of you to serve an intrusion in compensation for dysfunctionality.
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Florence Harrison (1877 - 1955)
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Odawara Station: Minamoto Yoritomo Visits the Daughter of Ito Nyudo (from the series Fifty-three Paired Illustrations for the Tokaido), Utagawa Kuniyoshi, mid 1840s, Cleveland Museum of Art: Japanese Art
Size: Sheet: 37.5 x 25.3 cm (14 ¾ x 9 15/16 in.)
Medium: color woodblock print
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Can't Run From Yourself
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Hair, Ito Shinsui, 1953
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everytime i close my eyes, a heat spreads through my skin, i think of you and then caress myself, out of shame and guilt.
i remember the dull hallway and the need for young romance, yellow tinted clouds and the smoky night sky, it all came together perfectly, like the song you used to play on rainy days.
my glassy doe eyes, filled with fear, looked up to your lifeless ones, i searched for a hint of sanity,
a microscopic trace of tenderness,
a momentary bliss,
but you had reminded me once again, it was only a simple equation.
now i dangle off of you, desperately grasping at the edges of the last thread,
knowing my voice and words are nothing but noise, knowing my tears and resistance is nothing but an obstacle,
knowing that i, am nothing but a vessel specifically designed to embody your darkest desires.
it's almost poetic; the terrors that took place within those four walls.
everytime i close my eyes, a heat spreads through my skin,
i think of my father, my brother, and all the men that came after them, some miles away and some right next door, all different and yet, all the same.
time and again, they keep on blaming my dysfunctionality on a mere misunderstanding.
i wonder if they're right though?
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I pour into my naked skin
listless with worry,
I am all vapour and water without
my skin holding me into shape.
I am everything that will drip away
with time and float
into another dimension…
and now as the skin ages, brittle
and wrinkled like un-ironed clothes
hanging loose on me,
I remember how your touch felt once
and without knowing
how the skin remembers that one thing
more than me.
© SoulReserve 2020
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Euphoria (2019-) dir. Sam Levinson
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my birthday is in a week,,,, manifesting frog cake 🛐👄
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as the shooting star passed, i made a wish,
for years and years i spent my time running away from the thick fog of sadness that surrounded me,
today i find myself chasing after that same sadness, lost in the middle of nowhere, i finally know what it means to be alive.
i made my body a prison, an enemy; and i left it rotting by the seashore.
i made my mind an acquaintance and every now and then, washed it away with waves of cheap cocaine and harsh liquor.
i left myself to die, only to swim against the current to save myself.
like drowning in a bottomless ocean, i struggled with every breath that escaped my trembling lips.
never before had i found the strength to march along with the breeze, never before had i wanted to love, to live.
and the pain, the pain that i once felt, is now condensed into wisps of smoke, the suffering that i detested with all my heart, is now, what i want the most.
if i extend my hand to you, would you grab it?
if i stop silencing the sirens, would you come and rescue me?
if i tell you to set me free, would you put a bullet in my brain?
my dear friend, i've forgotten what it feels like to exist, would you be kind enough to remind me?
yesterday i finished watching banana fish and it crushed me, this is inspired by ash, especially when he draws a comparison between himself and the leopard in the story he read.
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i sit on the cool floor, with a blank mind, slolwy losing sense of time and space.
and for a moment, everything else ceases to exist.
in a single second my life flashes before me, my eternal search for love and comfort ends in vain, once again i am all by myself, all alone.
within me lives a rage, oppressed by fear and irrationally, if only i could lose myself in this madness, if only i were free.
but i'm a coward; my hands have never been burdened by the weight of a gun, my fingers have never found themselves drenched in blood, my mind has never scattered itself on the floor.
yet, i yearn for a fight, and ache, for an unconditional embrace.
my evenings, haunted by images of pain and insanity, my afternoons, spent in a semi lucid fever dream.
how did i come back here?
the world around me crumbles, and the ghosts of the people i once knew, one by one, disappear with the wind.
i miss the days when i longed for vengeance, longed for death, and the nights when i hid under the sheets after hearing the door creak.
now my body is nothing but a lifeless vessel, and my heart begs me to weep,
if only i could lose myself in this madness, if only i were free.
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* gravity *
as darkness falls
find their way to the other
interlacing; clenching; embracing
planets between us
the light so distant,
yet we linger in one another’s gravity
into the gazing sky
melting into the melody of the moon
elevating upon wings of wonder
as we make
our own stars
© ScriptedSilence. All rights reserved
Pic credit - Earth. Aphelleon/Shutterstock
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just how i’m feeling atm
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Red Flower, Saitô Kiyoshi, 1952.
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a place to curate my thoughts for the sake of self preservation