mnemosyne

soohyuk, lee . twenty-five . son of the cityscape . speaks in graphite & ink . immortal mind ; mortal body . a tint of mnemokinetist.

[projecture-blog]

                   to whom it may concern;

                   it was cold. extremely so. cold. cold. cold. cold                    anyway,                    i’m not talking about                    it was cold they put me in a fridge-like (?) room                    fridge, like that time where umma would put my drawings                    i can’t talk much                    they deleted my memories… altered                    that much i remember that much i think i remember

                   am i who i think i am?

[eulogiac-blog]

!     HIATUS aka POPPING IN EVERY NOW AND THEN TO REPLY.

[topsommelier]

[eulogiac-blog]

e[x]it,

         ❛          starter for @goreravens --

his mind speaks in crippled words;                           language is optional when your mind                           is in shards.                                       ( so is cohesiveness,                                         comprehensibility,                                         logic – linearity. )

            if his head has shoulders they would be carrying the sins of men made in copies;                          replicas that are not identical, splintered in fates as they play with the dice.

roll the dice and start the roulette. this is a game where the spawn chokes on immortality; mouth wide open as they pour it in.                                                    and they say: drink it, drink it all.

he burrows his fingers in the soft of his throat but             he cannot                          purge it.

call it penitence, call it permanence. he is both. also both the blood and the knife;                                                            also both the shrapnel and the smoking gun.

                         however,                          he should feel honored. just a speck in the universe. yet chosen.

but for the night: play pretend. the menu is on the way; placed a call, promised a number.

this is a rooftop. that is a skyline. imagine this: the carcinogen,                                                       and then his lungs, decaying.                                                       like the rest of him. mazel tov.

                         the anatomy of the night plays its organs like a sentimental song;                          broken down into crescendo, diminuendo. encore is a fake dream.                          he thinks in the hollowed brutality that his veins, repeated, copied,                          contains. recalls the nights before; where fingers shivered so hard                          as he felt hypothermia creeping into his insides, waiting for him                          to breathe his last word to the wind,

                         but it did not listen to a passenger died years before pallor mortis.

in the underbelly of this story, lies a man who likes to think that normality is a choice.

and it is; placed a call, promised a number. he waits for the fake dreams                                                    to numb the palate of his mouth, enough, to the point                                                    where lying to himself comes like a second tongue.

the stranger comes two minutes and thirteen seconds late.

[purplebuddhaproject]

It would have been so pointless to kill himself that, even if he had wanted to, the pointlessness would have made him unable.

Franz Kafka (via purplebuddhaproject)

[eulogiac-blog]

BOLD ANY FEARS WHICH APPLY TO YOUR MUSE. ITALICIZE WHAT MAKES THEM UNCOMFORTABLE.

THE DARK. FIRE. OPEN WATER. DEEP WATER. BEING ALONE. CROWDED SPACES. CONFINED SPACES. CHANGE. FAILURE. WAR. LOSS OF CONTROL. POWERLESSNESS. PRISON. BLOOD. DROWNING. SUFFOCATION. PUBLIC SPEAKING. NATURAL ANIMALS. THE SUPERNATURAL. HEIGHTS. DEATH. DYING. INTIMACY. REJECTION. ABANDONMENT. LOSS. THE UNKNOWN. THE FUTURE. NOT BEING GOOD ENOUGH. SCARY STORIES. SPEAKING TO NEW PEOPLE. POVERTY. LOUD NOISES. BEING TOUCHED.

TAGGED BY: @90myn​ ( thank you ! )

[eulogiac-blog]

this machinal rebirth,

a little rundown on his personality & impression: despite being the youngest in the family and has always been babied by his siblings, soohyuk is, in fact, very patient. he has this extreme level of tolerance and resilience, swallowing down his anger and annoyance every time it intrudes. yes, he is like a child mentally, sometimes. he can be gullible, and unbelievably kind if not almost altruistic. age is just a number when his mental construction does not grow alongside the number. is usually treated as the youngest in his groups of friends; nobody calls him hyung, really. he oozes the smell of innocence despite his rather intimidating features, and also serenity.

if anyone manages to anger him, he’d usually swallow it down and stay away from the said person. the most that he’s ever done would be harsh words; no violence, no door slamming. very passive when it comes to that. sometimes anxious whenever he feels irritation growing inside; he’s afraid of snapping, for he knows the capability of these people he’s experienced before. ones who also stain his psyche with secondhand guilt. he will eventually snap, but that’s another story in his development.

also, he has ptsd symptoms that are not completely diagnosed for he lies to his therapists regarding his nightmares; he gets medication to let him remain awake in times of needs. also treated for anxiety. paranoia comes naturally. avoidance, sometimes, for the spots in the city that remind him of his previous lives.

first impression would be on how reserved and quiet he is, and he’d rather keep a distance unless they remind him of someone from his previous life. he’s on the shier side when it comes to strangers, and he usually becomes awkward upon being praised for his physical appearance.

[eulogiac-blog]

we're gonna die anyway.

he swallowed shards of glass for dinner; stomach a vulture that demands to be fed with chaotic intents. in his mind: an overture, symphonic. orchestrated discord. inside, everything is a paid poltergeist act; done for the entertainment, and the puncture the fistfight the haunting spin the entirety of this performance. breathing is hard when your organ system dreams of battle wounds seemingly imagined.

outside, the sky is a cracked version of black hole; destruction on a leash. pitch black with severed strings of soft shades. almost apocalyptic, almost suffocating.

                                   but at least he is not                     in a building without a fire exit.

                    ( so breathing, he tries. )

the street is the sound of inklings; people’s footsteps, embossed like ghosts. midnight is a reverie caught in a bottle. he reminiscences in decades. when this very spot was a spoken version of decadence. the screaming that grows louder with the turning hours. splinters of forgotten euphoria and trinkets of deceits. he learns to live with the memories that embrace his head; like a crown, isn’t it? a crown of thorns.

( thorns that grow deeper with every revolution; riot. )

he longs for something to scorch his internal structure, the systemic self-destruct. comes to a stop, and takes out his pack of cigarettes. lights one and resumes the ambling, the scuffing soles leaving nothing but muted sounds that blend with the rest of the traffic noise from afar. it is quiet and it is eerie: this abandoned street lined with stores bathed in lifelessness.

                        paranoia is a given, but                                      dying is not that bad.

and as if on cue, on the tunnel, graffitied: we’re gonna die anywaybackdrop: a decrepit wall covered in worn out words, but this one, in fading black            we’re gonna d                                    i                                      e                                         anyway

this is just a written thought of a man who understands that pallor mortis is their last terminal.

lucky, no? and pray, he did. pray for this to be his last – next time, maybe he can taste how it feels to have a clean slate, an empty mouth. not brimmed with broken teeth like shrapnel. and pray, he did. for this wheel to bend, for this circle to end. he’s done living with residual corpses, their bones stabbing his flesh, their maladies secondhand blood on his hands.

                                                               tired.                      tired. tired. tired. tired.

we’re gonna die anyway. he’s gonna die anyway.                                                   in flesh and bones only.

[kxmjieun]

Lee Soo Hyuk  (이수혁) for Arena Magazine by Ryan McGinley

[eulogiac-blog]

itinerary: ii-xvii,

// WRITING -- @90myn ; @baesunah ; @iso2108 ; @kimchitae ; @leexsun ; @pseuro x2 ;                         @srxdrum // WAITING -- @bldmvn ; @gvenchic x2 ; @hotelbaby ; @skwvn ; @srxdrum     !   i’m quite a forgetful person, so if i missed / misplaced, please feel free to poke me. <3

[eulogiac-blog]

are you sure you want to drown in an ocean of nameless faces?

sometimes, he is a motel with a crooked figured chalked on the creaky floor. all those streaks of blood that they scrub so hard but the wallflowers still remember what they witnessed. all the wallflowers that wilted, wilting, when carnage sprayed their dormant status with sins. also the bed where he thrashed, all simulated forms of unspoken words transferred into acidic non-verbal. and that bed sheet wearing new colors, the hue melting like waxwork with flames that attracted these fallen, falling moths.

                       he is also the thump. victim now on the plane; bloodshed is beautiful when            you are made of this chaotic smoke, caged by your glass ribcage.                                                            quite a vision, quite a beauty.

the wooden boards, the outline. and everything in-between.

                                  ( glass of half-full/empty water; tv playing static like sorrow. )

                       rest with me: i am an aftermath of this death, but i’m not in the coffin.

somewhere along the way comes the question ( did he read it somewhere? did he eavesdrop on a conversation? try: memory inertia ): are you sure you want to drown in an ocean of nameless faces?

as if he has not. dead or alive; post-autopsy or pre-delinquency. phases that smother, memories that smirk. has he not? maybe not enough? certainty is blooming not only from the historical values of this asymmetrical life, after all. and after everything, is he?

                                   c e r t a i n ?                        ( certainty hurts in one way or another. )

this is three in the morning ( twelve past ) and he’s in his bathtub, drowning too, but the ocean is ankle-deep. shivering; oversaturated. the heat embossed on his skin never lasts too long. aftertaste: spillage of cold. papier mâché in the hands of the sinking. kerosene in veins: forest fire in stomach. atoms splintering nucleus spilling; is he certain is he certain is he certain?

           hasn’t he been?                           ( no. )

even if he’s not, the wheel will keep spinning. he is a puppet without strings, puppet forgotten backstage. he has a broken cog swallowed, now residing in his lungs and he cannot cough it out. ( just a puppet, after all. ) there’s something wrong with him, and the dollmaker does not care. the show goes on without him. he sees it through his rimmed bead-eyes; a show, and another, and another, and another, and another.

so maybe he is not. not sure if he wants to drown, all over again, freefall into the ocean of nameless faces. but even if he is not, who is listening?

[eulogiac-blog]

bldmvn:

## “AND I NEVER SAID THERE WAS ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT.” Everyone had a different life style, and she was never one who judged others. More like, she didn’t care. In fact, when It came to sexual activities, Hana was quite open to it. Since the day she lost her heart. Feelings? Relationships? Not something she could do. One night stands, flings, hook ups, that, she could. As long as there was no attachment. She could never let herself feel something again. “Same as there was nothing wrong with not being interested in sex. I personally, like sex too much to pretend that I don’t.” She brushed her hair back, shrugging her shoulders.

there is a hint of a smile offered, shivering in the corner as it’s shrouded with doubts. to remain abstain is a policy smelted by deluge of nightmares; but his tongue disagrees. dissonance put aside, however, relief seeps in. amiable; congregation of silent applause for the conversation’s direction. he nods, humming. “that is true. i just… find it rather funny, that people tend to think they’re entitled to judge. sexual, asexual. the preferences. it feels to me that they’re just… a part of life. it’s just like how one likes a style more than the other, in clothes.” crisscrossed in his mouth is the absence of genetic tongue, forked yet hallowed. conversing with strangers speaks of the forte he never has.

[aantwerp]

Nothing In Nature Is Unbeautiful Sui He in Glass Magazine Winter 2013 Ph. Billy Nava

[wordsnquotes]

Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.

Zelda Fitzgerald  (via maanbloem)

[eulogiac-blog]

anthesis,

          ❛          starter for @srxdrum & @gvenchic --

this is the beauty of reciprocity: at least, in this lifetime, he is not a secondhand tool used in moments of needs.

the aching from all those times that abraded him remains; internal bruises never really heal, somehow. organs painted like canvas. black, blue, shades so vibrant he can taste them on his tongue. he’s so used to them his taste buds embrace atrophy with open arms.

this time, there are tints of different colors. he cannot tell which scheme it is.             ( but he likes the mixtures so far. )

and in this composition, everything feels contemporary; dysphoric. past sins demand atonement, past deaths demand funerals. he is a backyard with too many corpses buried, some fleshed, some bones. all the decomposition but he still scratches on his skin, hoping to shed it.

                       therapy is called play pretend: no, they were not you. they are not you.

           still, whose hands were they, around the foreign neck?            ( he saw his reflection, then. silver spoon. rigor mortis. )

maybe he does not deserve this; days filled with this thought would be spent in an overture of anxiety. but today, he swallows all the acid and deceives himself into thinking that the forest fire inside is illusory. some say the disorders are only in his head; so he tells the disorders that they are not in his head.

not today. today is a bloom of night sky, smudged with the gossamer stains of a forewarning. there will come soft rains. he hopes they come before then. he hopes they will come soon.

[eulogiac-blog]

i’m not even sorry if this sounds rude or anything, but do your research before labelling a character. no, we’re not our disorders. placing labels don’t make your character ‘quirky’. we exist outside our disorders as well and if you’re going to make your character go through something that actually affects people in reality, do your research. do your research besides dsm-v. do your research before labelling. if not, just don’t label it. it’s that easy.

[kimwoobinseyebrows]

“I almost never cry. Even when I watch a sad movie, I don’t cry. I only have the feeling of sadness. I probably cried when I was a kid because my mom didn’t buy me something I wanted.” - Lee Soo Hyuk in Marie Claire Korea (January 2016). Read the full interview translation by onesunnylady at the Sunny Town, here.