the stranger.

oc. indep muse. 21+ | enstrange.cloudaccess.host |

[enstrange]

me coming back to this acc to mildly revamp jaeyeon after a year long hiatus 🧍

[enstrange]

yes i did set his death date to be on 1986 just so he would have the opportunity to live his Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush summer.

[magnefique]

i am a ghost story with bones, out of the ashes / onto the earth. newborn, shaky-limbed, looking for something to tear open with my teeth. song you never sing because you fear / i’m too beautiful. even in death, especially in the afterlife. for i have touched heaven, and returned howling.

independent & private myth & oc multi-muse. 18+ only. please read pages prior to interacting. written by via and established in january 2020.

[ektos]

am  i  the  boy  you  dreamed  of  ?  living  in  your  subconscious.  do  you  believe  in  love  ?  and  is  it  because  of  me  ?   //   ind.  danny  fenton  from  danny  phantom.  by  bunny.

[enstrange]

might start making audiovisual studies for jaeyeon and his interactions, like journal entries or graphics + playlists 👁️

[yurel-deactivated20210806]

   ─  in this place you recognize your longing by blood in your mouth , by screams , you turn around and there's nobody watching over your fevered body .

INDIE RINGU ORIGINAL CH.  ／  𝓫𝔂 𝓷𝓪𝓼𝓼𝔂.

[metamorphesque]

“This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.” ― Franz Kafka

1. Sylvia Plath | 2. Anne Magill | 3. Franz Kafka | 4. Cathy Hegman | 5. Haruki Murakami | 6. Hope Gangloff | 7. Franz Kafka | 8,9. Sylvia Plath | 10. Cathy Hegman | 11. F. Scott Fitzgerald | 12. Cathy Hegman | 13. Haruki Murakami 

[enstrange]

@f8less

On the seventh day, amid a whilom Eden, Jaeyeon finds himself in another ripple of reality. Last week's recollections have been reduced to a disjointed film he would rather not dwell over. Scene I: Jaeyeon disguises himself as a human and desecrates all those before him. When all is barren he, along with the rest, mourn for their own loss. And soon enough, they venture into the unknown to seek home elsewhere. Scene II: They seize Taeyoung against his will and refer to him as god. Perhaps if he rids them of this corporeal form, perhaps if they force him to confess what lies beyond , perhaps if he shows them it was all for the best. Scene III: eternity´s denouement is silent. The film burns to nothing. Time, reason, purpose, all man-made constructs slip off his grasp at the realization: this is not real. 

In this ripple he is in Seoul. The city he wept in for decades now stagnant, suspended somewhere within infinity while the ghost of grey men pace aimlessly across its streets. And as all lost, he follows with no second thought. Far ahead from them, at the heart of the city, slivers of a known world unravel: a busy neighborhood, a small house near the countryside, a chapel. He stills. A chapel, nestled amid skyscrapers as its bell rings twelve times. Why is this here? As its children shriek behind the entrance. Why is this here? As he shoves his way through the crowd of specters and desperately attempts to salvage whatever may be left. Why? He grips the door handles and attempts to yank them open to no avail. But the doors never open. 

There is nothing to salvage. 

It’s not real. Desperately, he peers over his shoulder, the multitude of grey men serried over one lone man shrouded in white, standing under a streetlight serving as a halo over his frame.

“You´re real, right?”  As if the question is more aimed at himself than anyone. Desperately, he reaches out to close the distance between them, to ensure this not another anxiety induced hallucination. However, the further he reaches, the further the gap stretches between them. They may not coexist. “...We should….we should look for the rest and go home, I don´t know how but the dream´s expanding and it´s...” Above them, the skies light ablaze, the city deconstructs itself to debris plummeting onto the ground while all else deteriorates. “...I don´t think it's responding to us, it's responding on its own or it’s-” the doors creak open. When he turns to them, the scene bleeds off its sill, pours at his feet as the stench of rust sifts from the doors’ opening. A grim stillness reigns among them. It’s not real.

“...Where's the rest?” Fear wanes his voice to a murmur. The previous shrieking contorts to the clamor of five men. Yet he does not move. He does not breathe. It’s not real. Behind him, the presence he once found solace in looms over his shoulder as a gruesome omen, its void consuming all light from the realm. The city is gone. The world is gone. Their lives begin and end with Taeyoung. “What did you do?” 

[volchtsarchive]

            when you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives. 

[enstrange]

adrenalis·:·

Dawn’s frigid breeze has always been comforting somehow, perhaps because it pulverizes the clear smoke escaping rosy lips, biting at the sweet aroma that comes with it. The blazes smothering his lungs keep him warm for the most part. It also serves as a great distraction to the a mind that has been bombarded with intricate pieces of information rather recently. Perhaps it is just a pathetic excuse to fill the silence between them, his figure resting snug against the balcony doorframe.

He had heard Jaeyeon murmur something about the weather a while ago, but his thought were far too loud to thoroughly process any information from the outside world. Truth is, Seojun has been suffocating in the void of his own mind ever since their encounter a few weeks ago, held hostage to the turbulent oceans pulling him in. Fragments of that same night still linger, from the unexplicable events unfolding before his very eyes to the desperation in Jaeyeon’s voice in an attempt to elucidate the situation.

He’s unsure if any of it will ever make sense, if he has come to terms with it at the very least, but one thing is certain.

“Hey Jaeyeon…” And just like that his voice shatters the bleak silence. Curtains of artificial smoke trail after his steps when he exhales another puff while making his way towards the couch, lethargically claiming the spot next to the taller. Quivering lips should give it away; the torturous anxiety gnawing at his loins, sinking its claws into his bones and straining any sort of movement. It hurts to breathe, he notes when attempting to take another drag.

Teeth nip at his inner lower lip one too many times to leave a lingering taste of iron on his tongue reigning over the scented smoke. “That thing we discussed before, about my mom…I want to try it.” The usual callousness etched onto his words is nowhere to be seen, perhaps because it feels as though hands rest around his neck in an asphixiating grasp at the mere thought of experiencing the unknown (is any of it even real?). He can’t remember the last time fear caught him by the throat like this.

Hazel hues wander for a few seconds, from the small electronic cigarette between his fingers to the man sitting a few inches away. Brows furrow in thought, and so he breathes in the nicotine again. When he exhales the next word comes along with it, this time firm and assertive. “Tomorrow.”

Because if not tomorrow I might run away.

Permanence is fleeting.

Some evenings, he almost remembers death with a fondness. After a life of turmoil, eternity had cradled him in her void embrace as a final act of mercy and muttered: to live is to lose.

They learn this at age eight, the first symptoms of loss manifesting in the form of Mother. His own, deranged by penury, her youth departed along thousands to Ongjin in midsummer, all decimated before arrival. A decade later, she would be nothing but a carcass looming over his deathbed, the harpies boring into him one by one before her. (Did he even have a mother?)

Seojun’s, a catatonic wraith crucified on a hospital bed, the first stages of detriment gnawing at her psyche as she is held together by nothing but a concoction of codeine and the small hands of her son grasping hers. Weeks stretch to months, wilt to years, rot to decades. By 24, Seojun imitates the shade of his mother. 

In the span of three weeks, Jaeyeon attempts to purge every burden off Seojun´s lungs, only to realize it is these which still keep him afloat. That his presence, that the thought of his mother at reach, that a vow of a life after death, brings nothing but anguish. Thus they seek solace in their own form of normalcy.

On Saturdays, Jaeyeon saunters to Cheonggyecheon and pours his grievances in the riverbank, fantasizes of being carried by the currents to never awaken again (he will, he has tried).  

On Sundays he lurks in a hospital room, his arms filled with a new bouquet of flowers as last week´s wilt in the corner. In silence, he halts his existence and pretends not to see Seojun wrap his mother's arms around himself, pretend affection may halt her pilgrimage through the void, pretend they may halt the cosmos and fit eternity in a second, pretend to be eight again, pretend to be home again. 

On Mondays, Seojun evinces the last stages of loss. It corrodes his lungs in the form of narcotics and leaves him in a pseudo-euphoria. He awakes at dawn, the AM blues still shrouding their small enclosure. Jaeyeon does not comment on the way his ribs protrude through his skin, does not mention the fact he has resurrected four times already in the span of two weeks, does not mention every week he fades further into nothing. He only sits there, silent,  basking in the last seconds of quietude between them.

“It's starting to get colder.” As a peace offering.We can try again tomorrow. And if you fall, we can try again. And again. And again. No response. Seojun only grasps another cigarette and wanders off to the balcony. Beyond them, the first embers of tomorrow bleed through the night sky as a grim omen. Tomorrow, they would participate in a 9-5 murder of their conscience until Friday. They would mourn on Saturday, dig their graves on Sunday, await an early death before Monday only to start again the next morning. However, when Seojun returns to his side, he realizes they may only fool themselves for so long. In the end, his mind starts to fester.

Despite three decades between them, both root from the same disease, both bear the same penance. All years succeeding them serve as a presage for the inevitable.

We are ephemeral.

Yet we refuse.

"That...thing.” As if the weight of his words had finally caught up to him. “...Seojun, we don’t know her state, every mind is its own world. You´re not in any condition to- Seojun, last time...” Yet he drifts off, the recollections of their last encounter in the void marred by an unsettling gloom. Silence reigns between them for a few more seconds, the first strings of doubt tugging at his conscience at the sight of Seojun´s state. Devoid of youth, fatigued, decrepit. When his voice quivers, Jaeyeon represses the urge to take him in arms. And in that moment he contemplates; this might be his next loss. 

“ ...Are you sure? It’s not easy, you won’t be in your mind for that time and you have to be sure.”

[enstrange]

Actual footage of me, coming back after 4 months of being swallowed by capitalism.

[artifcial]

i caught hold of reality inside my dream I WON’T LET IT GO, I’M THE REALIST

[enstrange]

Update !

Jaeyeon´s/Cain's profile + background has been updated  along with some information about OLYMP and the project itself. All information is now here:

http://enstrange.cloudaccess.host/

[enstrange]

@elsoleil

Do you remember living?

Somewhere, within the wasteland he refers to as memoir, he remembers their first spring in Tuscany. A man-made oasis nestled somewhere between the Years of Lead. That spring, he had dragged himself  from border to border only to realize there is no heaven on the other side. That in the end, all men are hopeless, all condemned to the same purgatory. And as all those deemed penurious, he kneels before the nearest cathedral and awaits an early death. He resurrects at dawn, salvation standing  before him in the form of Kaoru, smiling, veiled by the first gleam of tomorrow with a grace  he had not witnessed in decades 

“Welcome home.”  Thus he chooses his own god.

He remembers mass on Sunday mornings, Kaoru’s gospel drowned by children’s hushed laughter as they line up for communion. Before the last amen, they run out of the chapel, their white robes swaying in the wind as they race to resume playtime. Kaoru urges him to follow and for the afternoon he lives a boyhood he never had. By the time they return it is dusk, their cheeks flushed by the sun, their robes dyed of  pastures, their hands clutching onto red poppies as they bid him  farewell. After midnight, Kaoru resembles Moloch. He carves a sanctum out of his ribcage, deludes him to believe home lies somewhere between his talons. “This is home.” Despite the congregation of vultures looming outside their church every Sunday, despite the vermin puncturing his lungs while he hangs from Kaoru´s halo, despite the clamor of eidolons pleading him to beware of the false prophet. Yet he believes. (He feels sick. He feels fucking sick). 

He remembers ´heaven´, how they encapsulated eternity in two springs and three winters. A self fabricated Eden composed by pretenses of tomorrow and upheld by a delusion they called faith. During daylight, they settled in borrowed youth. During the evenings, Kaoru shrouded reality under the night mantle and offered him Arcadia. Do you miss home? “This is my home.” 

He remembers heaven, how God cast him out of it.

Do you remember dying?

In their third winter, Kaoru dragged Cain to Gethsemane. His god now draped atop a chancel as he watches how the vultures  finally descend to peck between his ribs. They had come to take him, to destroy the pseudo-sanctum he had desperately built in the span of two years. And he is crying. Clawing through soil as three men bludgeon him close to death, suffocating in his own blood and bile. Why? And he is eight again, desperately clutching onto his mother´s skirt as a plea for her to not let them take him. He will be quiet. He will be obedient. He will be good just please let him stay. Why? And he is twenty eight, reaching for Kaoru´s robe as they crack his ribs one by one, praying for pity, for salvation, for a miracle. In his last moments of consciousness, Kaoru murmurs his obituary.

“This is the answer you have been looking for.”

Thus oblivion consumed their Eden.

At 10 p.m. he wakes up in a cold sweat, heaving, his palms pressed against his ribs only to find these intact. Three decades after the fall of men, Earth rids him of every yesterday and welcomes him in the form of ‘Jaeyeon’. Twenty four, again, lost in a city he barely recognizes.The slums he grew up in now barren to concrete, morphed into a howling necropolis they may garnish in city lights yet still rots all the same. Outside his window, Seoul weeps in a last farewell to winter. He listens in silence, and prays to somehow halt his existence once more. 

Kaoru had been gone for decades, yet he plagued his thoughts every evening. In dreams, in nightmares. By the end of February, he learns Kaoru´s memoir may have left yet his soul still wanders this Earth. Twenty four, again. Degenerate, again. Even beyond this realm, he scratches at a wound Jaeyeon thought no longer existed. The first time they meet again his hand coils around his throat in horror, swears he sees him flail wildly in a futile attempt to escape (kill him, kill the traitor, kill the false prophet) only to realize he cannot do it. He cannot. 

The following days had been marred by a tense stillness between them and he begins to ponder if Kaoru is but a figment of his own delusions. He may lie to himself every night, yet reality always dawns upon him the next morning. The second time they meet, again, both find themselves hanging from the rooftop to gaze at the precipice, both shrouded by a secular solitude today may never grasp. The winter had withered Kaoru´s garden, poisoned Jaeyeon´s for another decade. From the corner of his eye, he watches him attempt to hide in the corner, bathed in a dim moonlight; he may barely  recognize his skin now flushed by the evening breeze, bruised and bandaged from their earlier encounter. All airs of grandeur he held in the past now nothing but a carcass. For a fleeting moment, guilt pricks at Jaeyeon´s gut only to be buried next to their first spring. Neither move, neither speak. Sometimes, Jaeyeon likes to believe Kaoru remembers him. He likes to believe the pitiful frown on his semblance is his doing, believe vermin gnaw at his conscience as penance, believe the happier days lie somewhere behind his sternum. That he existed.

“Thank you-” Barely audible amidst white noise. “-for not pressing charges.” No response. Cautiously, he steps close enough for his umbrellas´s brim to shield the latter.

“You should go inside, you´ll get sick if you stay out in the rain” No response.  “...Let me make it up to you. I saw your boxes still sitting outside, do you need help?”