~Crumpled Foil Mind~

I've wondered one too many times at the shape of the clouds, and will continue to do so, if it brings me closer to loving me

[crumpledfoilmind]

dear latte.

i wonder if you think of me. or if you are such dust and air so as not to think of any of the sorrows. and it had been such a thin slit of light. latte you went first to remind. that theres a path for me back. we’ll chase the butterflies together. there’s an eternity first. but i’ll find my way back to you, my love. i’ll find my way back to you.

[crumpledfoilmind]

The student toiled day after day in an effort to please the Master. The one who taught with a stoic demeanor, leveling praise sparsely. The one who, the student thought— thought, held on to the hope that— saw something in the student worth burnishing. That was why the Master had taken them on as apprentice, was it not? But day by day, not one flicker of approval flashed across the Master’s face. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat movements, become air and fire and ice. And yet the Master’s expression never wavered. Confused, the student moved with a different energy. Resentful rage tinged their drills. Each wrathful sweeping of limb sharpening resolve. The student would remove themselves from the Master’s tutelage. And so, craning their neck high with a mixture of arrogance and something else, they issued the challenge.

“A duel, you and I—“ leveled the student.

The Master said nothing, standing as still as a crane does in a moon dappled pond at midnight. Mere shadow and and angles, they were not about to react.

the student bit back their anger and breathed deeply, just as the Master had thought them. They slipped into stance and leveled their spear at the Master. Attacking singularly, swipes of the elements, but all were evaded with barely a flicker of movement.

Then the Master made a move. In a single fluid motion, the Master disarmed the student and flung them to the ground with such force that the sound of cracking bones could be heard.

The Master said something. The student could never remember because they were barely hearing. Ringing in their ears. Anger swept away, replaced by something small. Wanting to curl in on themselves. Wanting to disappear.

“Why did you train me?” The student heard themselves saying. “Why couldn’t you love me instead?”

As always, the Master’s face inscrutable. Like a crane in a pond. Like a vision. There one second, gone the next.

But those hadn’t been the most important questions. The student had yearned to say, “what did you see in me?” But they were afraid of the answer. Instead they grew a protective pride. A hollow anger that, ultimately, was just steam. But the Master had seen through it. And the Master had chosen to leave.

The student wandered for years pondering this puzzling event. The student searched for eons for their life’s meaning. They remembered the Master with diluted emotion. Even then it was a confused remembrance.

Until one day the student chanced upon their hometown. Fate deals no such coincidence. Their Master sat at a table under a sun warmed tree that created shadows on the gravel. A game of —- lain out in front of them.

The student nodded impassively in greeting. They sat opposite the Master. Made the first move. Didn’t speak, not at a single word. In camaraderie, the match progressed. When it was over, the Master held out a papery hand. Mottled with age. A slight tremor. But that, the student was sure, they had just imagined. The infallible Master could never falter. The student shook the Master’s hand. A moment that brought a wave of emotion to the Student’s heart. They opened their mouth to say something, anything. Instead they thanked the Master for the match. Got up, gathered their things. And went on their way.

[crumpledfoilmind]

My footsteps leave marks in the sand behind me. Blink and it’s blood I’m splattering through. Blink again and we’re back to the dunes. Crest one, a sea unfolds with no end. Merges with the horizon line and the sky is golden too. Don’t blink. Don’t blink. They all hate me. Every single one of them. Dear Lord, don’t blink. Even if your eyes water, don’t summon the iron stained plain. Eyes water, grit your teeth and walk listening to the soft crunch of sand underfoot. Heat bearable compared to that. And then I can’t help it anymore. I blink, and fall into darkness.

A slow melody plays. I open my eyes, taking in the scene around me. I’m seated at a desk. A window shafts in soft sunlight. Books and paper all around my vicinity, stacked high in the corners of a cluttered room that smells of paper and ink. This was in the days before. I’m wearing a dress. My arms are soft brown and my hair is meticulously arranged to look deliberately messy. Oh, I do remember. When I curated appearances and danced with the world before I learned it hated me.

The end was a sudden storm. I don’t wish to recall it. A whirlwind sweeping, sweeping through with no regard for any. My skin grew golden, my arms wiry and lean. I chose the spear and tore up my dresses because there was always a wound to dress. I learned through trial and fire. When the dunes came, they signalled the quiet. The eternity promised to man was a globe covered in sand.

Blink and there’s blood. I’ve buried so many loved ones away. Until I stood alone. The choices I made not making me a friend. A lone kind of creature. Destined to disappear.

I walk creating marks in sand and blood. The world behind my eyes is my regret. Whose burden I choose to bear. And I walk, oh, so these dunes might bury me. But my feet still leave prints in the sand.

[crumpledfoilmind]

in my final days I saw a dream.

a peaceful calm descends.

the monitor beeps. All goes still.

No. her name is rage and fierce fire, and her motto is to fight to her own despair and detriment, but it’s good, really, that she raises her body from the coffin and levels her eyes at the world, eyes filled with Hate.

Oh, but she was a lover once too. Baked cakes at midnight and painted too. Sang songs at daybreak and always had a dance ready to spring forth. It was the world that hated her, love, not the other way around

her footsteps leave ash prints wherever she steps, constant shadow that eclipses all it encounters. They call her Red. Rage, red. Unto the world your rage.

[crumpledfoilmind]

she screamed a low guttural sound, a roar from her chest that broke into the air and engulfed all that was around it. A silence fell over the audience as the scream ensnared them. Solemnity prevailed as the woman raised her fist to the sky and in the gray gloom of the ceiling it somehow touched the stars.

Valentine Harcourt. She’s a sullen girl, walks with her shoulders hunched and her face perpetually tipped down. She has a shifty gaze and a thin mouth more prone to sneer than smile. Dressed in that dour black jacket, hands stuffed in her pocket and headphones turning out the world around her, it’s no wonder she’s an outcast here at X University.

No one would make the link between Valentine and Valentina Skye, the boxer at Wayne’s. This one’s got squared shoulders, arms sculpted as if a master sculptor took to his chisel with reverence. She’s got a quick roundhouse and even more lethal right hook, god, when she hits that training bag and the chains rattle, it’s like the bells have chimed and a spell almost descends, descends.

“You don’t look like a boxer,” Wayne cast a quick eye over Valentina who stood in a crop top, exercise bag slung over her shoulder. Her arms were the only thing that gave him pause, but he delivered his judgement with finality. “This is a serious establishment, lady.”

Valentina’s eyes burned with a strange steel that made Wayne bite his lip. “Try me out, Wayne.” She said his name unabashedly. “I can sling a quick one.”

Wayne might have been feeling charitable, the extra doughnut he’d had in the afternoon might have dispelled a certain mild mood which made him utter the words, “alright, stranger. The floor’s yours. Ten minutes to convince me I shouldn’t blacklist you here.”

When Valentina boxed, she was all lethal, angry energy. Resentment and bitterness exuded from her as she jabbed and threw hooks and uppercuts. Though her musculature seemed to have been sculpted by angels, she was a demon on the floor. The punching bag bore her rage with a strained, torturous patience.

“What drives you?” Wayne asked Valentina one day as she stretched into a plank at the end of a session. “Why are you so angry all the time?”

Valentina breathed in a sharp breath. The smell of rubber, of sweat, that petroleum scent of equipment, emboldened her. “Think I could compete next quarter?” she asked in reply.

Wayne smiled a wry grin in spite of himself. A dark horse straight out of his studio. “We’re gonna win that championship,” he said.

Valentine kept her head down. She trudged through life with a load on her back and a wariness in her shoulders. Books in her bag. No purpose. She’d fucked up too many times to clean up her act now. This chance? This chance to get her degree and change her trajectory? Well, it was a shit chance. Bottom barrel major, parents who looked at her with disappointment written all over their faces. Whispers clung to her at all the gatherings so she stopped visiting the family. Waste of space. Days, she lay in bed with the curtains drawn close. She didn’t imagine the darkness, she became it. Still she trudged to class. Still she made it through the snow and through the allergies in spring. And that was the most laughable part of it all. That she held on to a jeering, ultimately fading, kind of hope.

Valentina braids her hair. Each knot held fast with her sorrows. She ties bandages around her wrists and then dons her gloves. Steps out into the ring. An audience waits with collective anticipation. The referee whistles. Chin tucked in, elbows close, she shifts into stance. She fights.

[crumpledfoilmind]

Me after watching Stranger Things Finale:

"Baby just needed a hug and not to have killed all those people"

[crumpledfoilmind]

and i will love you forever, my love. and i will stand by your side.

[crumpledfoilmind]

The vastness looms. We titter with fear, we who have seldom flown. Gust of wind brings—demise we think, in that desperation we unfurl as we glide into the long, cold, the dark.

I was afraid. I didn’t know I didn’t have to be. I didn’t know the fire wouldn’t burn me. My fear its cold and strong hands rope around my neck anchoring me to the dark.

Now, the vastness grows closer—its yawning maw stretches—as I uncontrollably glide. Me. I, a bird who never knew how to fly. My friends are gone. It’s just me in the cold.

I fly, I pray, my wings find stability perhaps adrift, and I tell myself, here— I must find peace. here—

I must be free.

[crumpledfoilmind]

you must nurture the light. promise to remember how it feels. the joy that makes you feel invincible. its memory, only its memory can save you. only its memory will save you.

[crumpledfoilmind]

You know, these summer days…

[crumpledfoilmind]

Bruh.

I randomly remembered seki rei shiroe from terra e and now I've sunk into, I kid not, DEPRESSION.

ten years later this anime is still one of my favourites EVER.

[crumpledfoilmind]

you said to me “————-“

and I replied “——“

I wonder what we talked about that day. Sleep pulls at my eyes but the weight of my uncertainty tugs harder. So we’re at a standstill and I still don’t know if you ever loved me.

[crumpledfoilmind]

I look for —- in the rolls of memory that hide in rows in the crevices of forgotten places in my life. No one will develop the film but that’s fine. That time is long gone. If I take a roll and hold it to the light and squint I’ll see the dark brown image, however minuscule it may be. My heart is a long, cracked vase filled with wilted flowers. Dead for a few months and no one removed the water either. So now we’ve got tepid sludge and papery stems leading up to wrinkled, compact petals wrapped around a disintegrating core. You wouldn’t touch it. You wouldn’t even want to, my heart. But —- not only touched my heart, but brought the flowers back to life. They soaked up the sun of —-‘s light and bloomed into a beautiful spray of golds and reds and rosy pinks. And though they are dead once again, my heart remembers the song of life which once resonated in its very being. Likewise I remember. I won’t forget.

I’m forgetting the shape of —-‘s face. I can no longer bring —-‘s voice to mind. —-‘s eye color, was it brown? Honey brown? Or more dark like the wood that’s soaked in scented oil, that when burned fills the air with a heady perfume? I am flailing, floundering, panicking. Who will be there for me when —- is far out of my recall? So I look for the rolls of memory stored in the caches in my brain. No one will develop them, the art is lost and gone. All’s left is gimmicky little stores that charge a premium to develop film. I- I- I can’t-

I have to let —- go. They said I have to. They said they’ll take me somewhere warm and safe where there are no cockroaches and the bread in the fridge has no mold. They said they’ll make sure my sheets don’t have stains and that my prescriptions are always filled. They said I’ll have people to talk to and hobbies to keep busy at. Crochet and the like. Ha! Me, crochet? I was always more of an adventurer. But they didn’t say —- would be there. They didn’t mention—-‘s name. And then I think, what if —- is alive only in the vestiges of my memory? What if —-‘s existence lies in tea grounds of which boiling water has leached all flavour?

They ask me why I stare at the brick wall opposite my left window instead of the flower patch outside my right. I don’t tell them of the vase of wilted roses in my chest. I just smile and nod and pretend to be what they think I am, an old and senile lady. But in my mind’s eye I am reviving. I am keeping—- alive in my recall.

I felt so tired today, and then I felt like I wanted to sleep. It was dark and cold. But I opened my eyes even though I felt sleepy. I saw a bridge and went across. I saw an arch. —- stood behind it, looking at me. For the first time in many long years, I didn’t have to hold a roll of film up to the light, because —- stood in full colour.

[crumpledfoilmind]

I open my eyes. They are dry, and an uncomfortable sensation registers as I peel them wide awake. It is followed by the deep curved hollow that I’m so used to these days. But today, right when I wake up, the hollow disperses a little sooner. Probably because I’m thinking of —-.

I haven’t drawn —- into my recall in such a long time. —- was such a constant, such an element of stasis in my life. I don’t remember so much, but I guess I remember now,

That I was happy. That I would laugh. That the place occupied by the hollow held instead tenderness and contentment, joy. I was the moon imbued with —-‘s light. Once gone, I was desolate.

I think of —- now, being awake, and a tendril of that long-lost feeling creeps forth, tentative, wavering, desperately delicate.

Like a pang of hunger, it brings with it an ache. The hollow curve evaporates like dew once the sun comes out. It leaves freshly butchered pain.

My love, would that you were here. I would cherish every laugh, every languid spin around the coffee table pretending we were dancing in a ballroom. I would treasure the quiet moments, the mundane lulls of silence in which we’d eat our eggs and sip our coffee. Every moment of closeness, when your arm was slung around my shoulders or when we squeezed into our compact sedan on a summer day, and the warmth radiating from your skin and mine would mingle. Damn, why’s the AC not working, was our refrain. Would that I hear your voice again.

—-, the world is not the same without you. I don’t know how to heal, and ghosts don’t take apologies the same way live persons do. The frustrating part is that I don’t know if I treated you wrong or if it’s all in my head, like most things are these days.

I get out of bed. The sun is up, the groggy veil between sleep and wakedness lifts. The ache is just a shadow. The hollow curve waits for when it’s time to go back to sleep.

I eat my eggs and sip my coffee. I nearly spit out the first sip for how bitter it is. I chuckle inwardly at my own harebrained-ness in scooping too much of the grounds. Yeah, life is…

I pause.

Life is?

The coffee is neither hot nor cold. I’ve finished breakfast, so it’s time to wash my things. I get up and the chair legs grate on the floor. I hope they don’t leave scratch marks. I go to find my eye drops. I hate how uncomfortable my eyes get when they’re dry.

The fluid spatters into my eyes, raindrops of relief. Life, yeah, there should be an eye-drops solution for all of life’s woes.

My heart skips a beat. —-, a woe? The tendril reaches out in full force and twists around my heart, extending thorns before retracting, and now its burst and I’m bleeding all over again. Thinking of —-. I just choke up a bit, not really a cry. But this too will pass.

I’d rather —-‘s ghost haunts me than I forget. But would that! Would that! Would that…

The refrain starts a clamour in my head, banging of copper pots and pans in unison and not.

But —-, did you know? That I am filled yet with love for you. It’s driving me sick. But I’d rather get sick than forget about you.

I place my bottle of lubricating eye drops in its nook on the shelf, where it’ll be easy to reach the next morning.

[fairydropart]

Totoro

[crumpledfoilmind]

The overhead chandelier burned glaringly bright, making spots swim across my vision.

“My Lord?” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. “W-what is this?”

The Yawning Claymore, in all its glory, jutted out of my chest. A red splotch bloomed, growing in size until blood dripped in slow motion to the floor.

I didn’t notice the pain, though. The sword had been hurtled out at me from across the ballroom, but I could only stare into the eyes of its yielder.

Stare, though the lights above attempted to distract me.

Stare, into his ruby coloured eyes, which I’d always thought looked like the sunset sky after a rainy day.

They still looked that way to me.

“Why?” I asked, but no sound came out of my throat. My vision became blurry, and I was finally aware of the ache spreading through my body.

I collapsed to the floor as the world dimmed. My last words didn’t make it past my lips.

“I’ll still always love you.”

-Interim-

Soft, warm sunlight permeated my eyelids.

I sat up with a gasp. My hands flew to my chest, fingers trembling as they unbuttoned my chemise.

My skin was untorn, unscarred.

“Lady Opal?” said Elise.

My maid stood by my bed, my carved mahogany four-poster positioned in my grand living quarters with delicate French windows, open to let in the morning breeze.

I was in my room. Unhurt.

“Lady Opal, did you have a bad dream?” Elise’s eyes brimmed with concern as she bent over and put a hand on my forehead. Her palm was warm, viscerally real. I was not dreaming.

Then- had I dreamt-

“Elise, what are my appointments for today?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“You have a ball, milady,” Elise said. “The ball to celebrate your marriage with ---“.

Relief flooded through me and I laughed out loud. “The ball is today! It was just a dream!”

-Interim-

I gritted my teeth to prevent the blood from pouring down my mouth. It trickled instead, closing up my throat and lending a steely taste on my tongue.

So I couldn’t ask, “Why?” as I looked at the Yawning Claymore embedded in my chest. My hands made to pull the sword out in a futile gesture.

Tears filled my eyes. I looked across the room into his own. And I knew my tears weren’t of pain, they were of sadness.

My last words faded in my mind as I slid onto the floor.

“I’ll still always love you.”

-Interim-

I sat in a rose garden. The greenhouse glass arced far above, and this time at noon, the fragrant scent of roses pervaded the area. Roses tumbled across the floor in grassy patches, they climbed the walls attached to wooden supports, and they dotted the intermittent bushes growing around the perimeter.

Roses were his favourite flower.

Before me lay a table covered in sweet delicacies and rare savoury items, on rare china accompanied by a pot of the finest tea.

“May I?” I said to the person sitting across.

His face was shaded from view. I frowned, turning my head and trying to get a better angle.

I still couldn’t see his face.

But it felt so natural to smile and laugh and say, “May I pour you a cup of tea?”

I lifted the pot, caught a bit off guard since it was so heavy, and tipped it over the teacup across.

Burning tea splashed onto the saucer.

“Oh! Please excuse me!” I said.

I gasped. The tea was blood red, and it matched the dark spot growing on the bodice of my dress.

I dropped the tea pot and it cracked on the table with an audible sound.

He finally looked up.

Coal red eyes like the night sky after a meteor.

My complaints died on my lips even as my body grew numb.

I would still always love him.

-Interim-

“Lady Opal? Lady Opal?”

Elise’s voice came from far away.

I was rooted in some place filled with anguish and sorrow, but hearing her voice, I finally woke up.

I put a hand on my chest. My heart beat as steadily as ever. I breathed in and breathed out.

“Elise,” I said. “What are my appointments for today?”

“Well there’s the ball, milady.” She said, fluffing up my blanket to air it. “The ball to celebrate your marriage to ---.”

A strange foreboding filled my chest. I kept having the same dream, over and over again. I died, --- slayed me with his Claymore every time. But yesterday- I sniffed, catching a whiff of the rose tea Elise was preparing. Yesterday was a dream, for sure. Everything else had felt so real.

“Which dress would you like to wear, Lady Opal?” said Elise, holding up a frilly pink gown and a more elegant, fitted silk green dress.

On the first night, in my excitement, I’d worn the pink.

On the second night, relieved at a second chance, I’d chosen the silk.

“Neither of these,” I said. “Can we take a look at my wardrobe?”

“But my lady-“ protested Elise. “These were made specifically for the occasion!”

“Elise,” I said. “Please take me to my wardrobe.”

Elise bowed her head. “Of course, Lady Opal.”

I donned my funeral wear. At this point I knew. None of these past nights had been a dream. They’d been the same scenario replaying for some reason or the other.

I wore a simple black robe and accessorized with black gemstones. I drew a veil over my face.

Part of me wanted to run. There was still time to call for a carriage and leave the palace. I could go far, back to Amorettia, to my parent’s estate.

But I desired, I yearned, to see my love for one last time. This really would be the last time. If I woke tomorrow with yet another chance, I’d go far away without looking back. But I needed to know. I needed to say my last words before being gently blown out like a candle flame.

-Interim-

As usual, the corridors were empty. The first two nights, I’d found this immensely strange. Now I knew that this ball was just a farce, a chance for Lord --- to kill me.

My heart was bursting. I didn’t feel it in the moment, but the pain had been intense. Of the Claymore ripping through my skin and impaling my viscera. My body reacted to that strike before it even happened.

Yet, I held my head high and carried on.

The way leading up to the ballroom was lit by few candles. The grand, carved doors groaned open by themselves as I approached.

The glow of the chandelier within beckoned me as if I were a moth to be drawn to its light.

I was a moth to be drawn to his light. I knew my weakness, my literal Achilles heel that had been my undoing every time.

“---” I said, standing on the brink. “You’re waiting to kill me, aren’t you?”

I took a deep breath and raised my foot. “Let me say it before I go.”

I crossed the threshold, waiting for the rush of air as the Claymore found its way to my heart.

“I’ll still always love you.”

There. I said it.

I didn’t search for his gaze, and neither did I need to.

I closed my eyes and smiled, even as pain spread through my body.

A memory of roses, of laughter and eyes as red as the dawn of day. Could just have been a dream. But I’d still love him, always.

[crumpledfoilmind]

someone on tt brought up how viktor made jayce promise to destroy the hexcore in season 1 but why did this have to happen in the most agonizing way possible