looking through the telescope.

A head full of stars, just not in constellation yet.

[consteullation]

( ☆ )

[chaosophia218]

Constellations.

[relativizar-se]

[consteullation]

( ☆ : i n d e f i n i t e h i a t u s ! )

[consteullation]

bogusbeats:

someone, somewhere has sensed his anticipation and when she comes waltzing back into the office he finds it hard to keep still. the point here is to play it cool. so he keeps his eyes glued on the wall, tries to find comfort in counting the cracks in the ceiling and eventually his eyes travel down to the computer at his desk. he has no idea why it continues. what joy he gets out of seeing her riled up. maybe he really is as crazy as she’s been claiming all these years. or maybe his superhero senses are tingling and he knows that under all that self righteous straight laced nonsense she spouts is just a person waiting to come alive.

he begins to type aimlessly at his keyboard. the word document reads in crude hangul about how he’s just a man waiting to watch his diabolical plan unfold. he’s afraid to look around as he hears the knock of office supplies against her desk. knowing that should they make eye contact she’ll know something is up. it works in his favor that this prank is an auditory one. and on instinct his leg starts to bounce uncontrollably in his seat as he waits for the inevitable.

it’s louder than he expects and what’s even more unexpected is her fall to the floor. there’s barely anytime to process his success because a moment later she unleashes a verbal attack in his direction. no time is wasted on his part in looking offended. a hand to his chest in mock shock.

“iseul are you okay? what was that noise? are you hurt?” it’s a picture perfect rescue as his hand is extended to help her to her feet. “i don’t even know how that happened. is your chair broken?" 

"don't you dare touch me!"

perhaps her actions are too rash, but honestly has he not gotten away with it too often? the extended hand is slapped away, sharp noise following suit as her palm leaves a red print upon his forearm. this whole charade has gone on long enough and yet his façade is upheld – how can he stand there with such a straight face when the laughter, the mirth, is so clear in his eyes? her little display earns a group gasp from the observers that surround her; it’s close but she controls her foul mouth from lashing out at the others.

humiliation is overwhelming and the hot flush of her cheeks feel like stinging slaps, biting on the inside of her cheek can’t choke back the tears that threaten to spill. iseul doesn’t even think to look at the damage (after all her pride is much more important than  a stupid old rickety chair), rather her tawny eyes search blindly for an escape.

up on her two small feet, up with such haste she almost trips over the collapsed chair in the process. and she sees it. some sort of device taped (terribly so,might she add) onto the remainder of her seat. nose flaring, fingers balling into angry fists and blood boiling, she nudges it with the edge of her shoe. so that’s his weapon huh? he’d hadn’t concealed his tracks this time.

not that there was any substantial proof that it was actually his.

the flush upon her cheeks had yet to die out, as  had the stares. she retreats, scampering off to the door with heavy, hasty steps. a raised fist and wide eyes narrowed, she turns to address her nemesis once more. 

“Mark my words, Cammy-boy, I’ll get you back -- you better watch yourself.”

[933005]

Visual and mental impairment had reached its peak. Dizziness had shrouded his field of vision and not a single thought pertaining to other means besides the drink could form in his psyche. A headache caused by the intoxication and the overthinking of his stupidity shut his eyes tight. Falling into a deep sleep seemed plausible seconds ago but now he was wide awake. Perhaps the man above made sure that Lucas would use this time for a self-reflection in the night. “Never again, Lucas. Never again…” Investment of the next couple minutes or so to ingrain that command followed suit until it rendered clear in his head. 

Void of any thoughts gave way to the dead of the night. There was complete silence, hush tranquility. He found it ironic that the most soothing remedy for his condition was nothing, literally nothing. Laying on a bench seemed more useful than what a hospital bed could offer. As time progressed a feeling of equilibrium gave him enough energy to sit up against the hardwood. This certainly was beginner’s luck, so to speak. But he would never dare to try this luck, again. One shot was enough for the male. A voice soon disrupted the undisturbed setting; he recognized it to belong to a female. With barely any lighting coming from the street lamp above he gave a response in the dark, waiting for the other to come close to the proximity of the bench. 

“I wouldn’t want to be a king if my throne is a crusty old bench, mate.” An assumption was made that she was the recipient of his call. “Thanks for stopping by, I owe you one.”

[consteullation]

“Well, I dunno. You do quite suit it.” Iseul scoffs. Scuffed trainers drag against the grassy area as she circles his seat, head bobbing up and down in a bobble-like motion. “Don’t mention it. Otherwise I might just end up regretting it.” Not true at the least, after all following whims through are never a reason to regret -- that is a lesson learnt lifetimes ago. 

Under the dim yellow light, he looks washed out, almost ghost-like. Frankly, the whole ambience is oddly comical in no real perceptive way -- and yet she struggles to contain the desire to burst into unbound laughter. Sure as hell she’s no sight to behold either, not in the dark of a night like this. Conceivably this sudden upsurge of hilarity derives from earlier depictions; his voice, slurred only slightly (not incoherently so like some people, thank her stars), hadn’t invoked an image and so -- as she always does with unknown beings -- she creates the image of a forlorn, hooded character awaiting her arrival. 

“You going to continue to lay there or d’you wanna get up so I can take you-- well, wherever you need to go. Home? To get coffee? I dunno what this little social gathering calls for honestly. Leaning against the backing of the bench, she glances down (most probably the only time she’ll ever be able to do so, judging by the way his legs dangle from his throne) and shoots a look that can only be described as a conspiracy of half-conjured emotions not fully committed to. “Am I going to have to use these muscles of mine and haul your arse around?” The query is paired with an exaggerated attempt to flex her thin arms, displaying nothing but brilliantly decorated (with scabs) elbows and translucent skin. 

[cspvr-deactivated20160521]

!! starter to: consteullation

“Do you believe in aliens?”

[consteullation]

“Of course I do, I mean we only literally know a small percentage that there is to know about the great beyond. There has to be intelligent beings elsewhere in the universe.”

[mincarey-blog]

[ sms: my star, sent at 12:05 am ] You didn’t ruin my night. [ sms: my star, sent at 12:06 am ] I’m going over there right now, okay? Please don’t move from where you are. I’m coming for you.

[consteullation]

( TEXT: 캐리 ) staying still ( TEXT: 캐리 ) i wils not pis s my pants ( TEXT: 캐리 ) nymroe e

[lxxshyuk]

He was amused by her response and how she views scars positively. Most people would view it as a flaw to their appearance, but it was refreshing to hear her own spin to the matter. It was true that scars could give a person their own distinct features and different experiences, and that applies in both physical and mental aspects. “I have to agree with you on that.” He lightly chuckles. “It really does add a little something special to a person when they have a scar or a beauty mark to their body. Most people have their own little stories about them too. It’s pretty much like a tattoo.”

[consteullation]

“A tattoo? Hm, yes you’re right. I like the way your brain works, mister.” It’s an curious little concept, that these wounds inflicted by maladroit manners and animated actions could be described as tattoos -- the artwork on a canvas of skin -- and she locks this newly presented idea in her mind. From now on, she’ll most likely use it to describe her scabs and scars; to those will dull minds the approach will be difficult to grasp and, as she does, this will be her test to separate humans who she must regard with common sense in speaking, and those more fanciful like herself. “I’ve got a couple of pretty a-maze-ing ones, all with fantastical stories as well. I guess you could call me a poster child for it.” 

[erikacle]

Laughter. Erika’s laughter is harsh and crackled, like dying embers (because we all die, and ain’t that an ironic tale to tell.) For a transience she took the opportunity to observe, cynicism is an acerbic humouring ability adolescents gain as they sauntered into adulthood. 

(She’d forgotten people could respond, could deny, could refute her demands. Unlike before.)

“You are funny,” She stated the obvious (if her prior mirth was no indication), tracing fingers at the angular line of her own jaw, “How shall I say? They’re simply beautiful.” And no further explanation she could proffer; Erika’s gaze deviated to the right, settled upon something hazy in the distance. “Surely you must know what I mean, if that has not happened to you before then you must not be human…” The laughter existed even there, a remnant of joy and purity that flourished ten years ago.

[consteullation]

How the human form conceals inner chaos with contortions of features and well-delivered lines without a concious choice made. It’s an unnerving mechanism, this automatic desire to harbour the darker shades of grey our life stumbles into. Yet, as people, we remain unhinged. 

Really, the human race is such an enigma -- one no one seemingly cares to delve into. 

“I am not funny.” Once, not so long before their paths had crossed, her humour had been a pride. Alas, the seven deadly sins will rot a person’s soul and no longer did simple compliments suffice; her pride had become her undoing, insecurities ran rampant. “And apparently, not human either.” What a fine predilection that would be. Not to be human. Not to be inflicted by this worldly problems. 

A monotonous drawl of syllables elongated sound too far away, drowned out by her own furious thoughts. Who is she to say such things to her? Is this all Iseul will ever amount to, a physical object to admire momentarily until their taste’s are satiated. For too long had she allowed others this luxury. No more. “Sorry, but don’t you think this conversation, as riveting as it may be, might be suited for someone else.”

[consteullation]

( ☆ : i n d e f i n i t e h i a t u s ! )

[consteullation]

jooriiah:

( . . . )

But she knew she’d never get that sense of comfort again, not even if someone attempted to convince her otherwise. Seoul wasn’t where she was supposed to be, wasn’t supposed to be at all.

An author of many short stories of the mind, Iseul creates coloured history of foreign faces – those strangers on the streets that exchange quick glances with the air above their head and the gravel beneath their foots – in mere seconds. Only few have heard these fables and with each recollection she is met with the same chorus of praise; ‘you should write stories.’ It is a comment often thrown around with those who refuse to dabble in the art of imagination, a careless one which has been the conception of many terrible novels. All writers are creative souls, but not all creative souls are writers. It is, unfortunately, not one of those interchangeable traits.

On her travel, before stumbling on a quest unbeknownst to anyone but herself, there had been three particular tales woven from stolen from a flickering gaze. First, she had crossed paths with a drab middle-aged mare with empty eyes, the plastic handles of shopping bags cutting into the flesh of her palm; and, oh how her story is full of woe! She was a mother of five, working night shifts at a dead-end job whilst fighting for a loveless marriage because all else will be difficult. It is nothing compared to the albatross upon her neck, the loss of a dream torn from her hands – as a child all she desired was to follow the path of an Archaeologist, but only mockery followed in its revelation; her spirits were quick to be beaten down  –  and so, after then, she had lapsed into an eerie silence that even when words were uttered they could not be heard.

Then, hand in hand, a young couple. There story was a little more bland, but Iseul found herself more drawn to the possible future rather than the latter. One night they’d fight – as they always do – but it would be different. It would be final. Never were their disputes anything substantial. Still, substance can be outweighed by copious and continuous occurrences. Years lost, the two will only think of each other in passing. They’ll go on with their lives, eventually marrying some other souls and one day, maybe whilst sitting in the garden with their children or lying in bed beside their significant other, they’ll finally and truly conjure up an image of the other: on days like the present, walking hand in hand with pink cheeks and inside jokes. Perhaps, in a moment of weakness, he’ll reach out to her – in the form a drunk call, possibly? –  and the last kiss will seal their fates. A kiss that tastes only of the past, unreachable even in faded memories.

Many more little tidbits were fashioned even after the passing; they are forgotten as quick as they are created. In the midst of establishing the basis of the blue-haired starlet, her tawny eyes capture sight of a storm brewing over this sapphire sphinx's head. Oh, her blessed stars, the poor creature is in tears. Absorbed in those castles built in the clouds, the little stargazer fancies herself to be a suitable enough hero for this story. 

"Now missy, what has got you in such a tizzy?"

[0326x]

[voiceofabsolute-deactivated2015]

“Underestimating cats? I highly doubt it. But I’m not really fond of their way. True – they look beautiful and carry themselves with grace but they are selfish and ruthless bastards that would not blink even once if they were faced with the need to kill their close ones for their own more comfortable living.” Kirin grimaced at the memory of one tiger many years ago. “Oh, I am well aware of their memory. They bear grudges longer than any other creature. And when it comes to wit… there is one more animal with that capacity. A horse. I’d much prefer a horse ruling me than a cat. At least they’re not carnivores!”

He listened to her words and fell silent as he pondered upon them. The girl was right. This world was at its peak when it had to only abide by the rules of Mother Nature. When the balance was the one and only ruler. The girl was right. “That would probably be the best thing. Nobody should have that power. No mortal - be it cat, horse or human. Only the gods have that right as they have given us this world, do you agree?”

[consteullation]

"The Gods?" She scoffs. Until the mention of deities she had found his opinion compelling, one to agree with. But, the Gods? Were they not the pinnacle of selfishness. From those who ruled Ancient Greece, Egypt and Rome,  the ones who had become namesake of so many clusters of stars; their stories were only preceded by the selfishness of Abrahamic religons which demand love for a narcissistic ruler who, in return, promises the people that they are ‘chosen’. Not to mention the scattered believes of those idols and statues and other things Iseul has no real knowledge about.

To her, God (or Gods -- both plural and singular, the concept is still the same) is a mere reminder of the evil nature that humans possess. She doesn't even believe in God. "They are the most selfish concept, even worse than us humans. They deserve nothing. Not that they are even real y'know-- But still, the whole notion of them is just...It's just disgusting really." The end of her sleeve muffles her final sentiment as she chews upon it, a habit which resurfaced from childhood. To her, God was the ideology that stemmed from the mouth of the person she despises most -- her mother. 

[soldier-seoul-deactivated201612]

“I doubt they will. Look at how thick they are!”, To him. It looked like it would rain. But there were they, waiting to spot sparkling stars. “You said, you’d bring along some snacks? Where are they?”

[consteullation]

“You complain far too much.” Her backpack crammed with snacks,  honey butter flavoured for the most part. She rummages through, fishing out a pack of chips to chuck in his general direction. “There you go, now let’s wait.”

[lxxshyuk]

His eyes trails down to her knees while she placed a band aid onto her knee, his brows furrowed a little and wondered just how many times she had “flew” down the stairs before. It concerned him, though there’s really no reason for him to be since she said she was fine. “Still, you should be more careful next time. You wouldn’t want to hurt your pretty face next time, right?”

[consteullation]

“I’m always careful, it never does me any good though.” A stretch of the truth perhaps, but Iseul was never really taught how to be careful when attempting your own stunts and, by god, she’s never admit her faults even if it were to save her own life. Checking her palms, then her elbows and finally her shins, she ensures the rest of her is injury free. “Doesn’t matter, i’ve hurt it plenty of times. Pretty is fading, but scars– now that gives a person’s appearance some real character!”

[ijjong-deactivated20240115]

( . . . )

It’s then that he notices two bright circles approaching them, however to his surprise and disappointment it turns out to be a car which drives straight past them. Maybe it really isn’t coming and now he’s stranded out here with this girl who’s name he doesn’t even know yet. Not to mention the fact that it’s not just drizzling anymore, he can hear the rain slowly beginning to come down harder. Well this is just great. He does decide to sit down after a few seconds, heaving an small and irritated sigh. ❛❛ Might as well make yourself comfortable again, looks like it’ll be awhile. ❜❜

[consteullation]

He strikes her as odd, a little off tangent. Very much like those day dreamers she’s subjected to be lumped with. Unlike them, she thinks of nothing to better the world – hers or otherwise. And he strikes her familiar. Yet, most do. Essentially, many people are simply carbon copies of each other – not knowingly of course – attempting to be regarded as the original. She, herself, is sure that in terms of persona, there are doppelgängers plentiful. A surprisingly comforting concept.

Back to him, turbulence is clear. What sort of person is so oblivious to their surroundings that they have not an inkling of distance nor time? Between her brows a crease is formed out of a conspiracy of confusion and unease. His mannerisms, the contortion of his features -- all very surreal when paired with the wringing out of heavy clouds. In fact, with those translucent looks of his and the aura of ambivalence he carries, the small stargazer cannot help but to draw an unearthly comparison; he is very much like a rain cloud.

Iseul is drawn by the lamenting air of the dark, damp world which surrounds her. Home has become such an abstract concept in these recent times that she has qualms about the whole notion; after all, who is to say the great outdoors – a thief of many her hours and livelihood – is not her home? “Not too far, not at all.” A stretch of the truth, but what will truth bring? Deceitful ways will never be rewarded, still there are times where veracity is unneeded.

Tangles form in the length of white wires of earphones, between finger and thumb does the lump reside. This is how she seeks solace. His introduction is accepted with a gentle jerk of the head, the tartan scarf which masks the lower part of her lips falling to reveal her own name. "Not ideal meeting grounds, eh Jonghyun? Iseul is the name." With that, the corners of her mouth quirk up -- albeit only for a moment -- and her earphones are wrapped around her fingers like ivy vine.

Fumes of exhaust fill the night air as a vehicle slugs past. She follows it, curiosity piqued as it does whenever she allows herself the pleasure. Cars are constricting, a suffocating tin can that she refuses to travel in -- has so since childhood. It's only then -- as she watches the dim glow of tail lights fade, like two fireflies consumed by the darkness as all bright things do -- does her mind conjure a query which weighs heavy on her tongue. Why was he here, travelling so late? Only restless souls roam the streets of Seoul at this time. Iseul would know.

It's not a concern though and so the convictions remain unvoiced. Upon the bench she takes refuge once more, kicking her short legs in a mismatched pace. The same pace of which droplets patter upon the pavement. Never had she thought of herself as a patient being, but revelations always come at night; the same girl which had thrown a fuss about the three-second ads on youtube, now awaiting for a thirty minute late bus that has no guarantee of even turning up. Another thirty minutes could pass and still her patience will refuse to run thin. 

Jonghyun (his name was Jonghyun,right?), on the other hand, has painted himself quite a picture with those sighs. "Perhaps a taxi might be of better use for you?"