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𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒. the dark is sometimes a womb, but here, it is a place of absence, the waiting room between one world and another. life was god's afterthought — if you want to know any stories, you gotta ask death.

𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉, the anthropomorphic concept .ᐟ an original character developed by amanda ( & first established in 2014 ). let this be a study in abstraction taken flesh, in stories of humaneness and what they do to the ones who are listening. if death is the narrator waiting at the end of any story, have you ever considered what she might tell you when there is only the dark to witness it ? ⬩ sideblog ⬩ pinterest ⬩ navigation links ⬩

#header made by marina. ♡ thank you.

curseat

THERE WAS LOVE , ONCE — if suguru walks through the hallways of memory he'd surely find the evidence of it, stark and bright against the putrid smell of everything else. in the door to the left he might see the way his mother looked at him before, try to erase the way she looked at him after, pretend that he will not ever imagine the way she might have looked now, all of the light removed from her eyes, an empty thing with nothing but muted purple against muted white. memories are twisted like that — willows bent out of shape, a brook curved in such a way that the shadow it casts is wrong, broken, corrupted. suguru's hands are trembling, his stomach churning with a truth he's not ready to admit, no, not yet.

though the moon has hid itself from this pitiful sight, she still remains, illuminated as though from within, a single cigarette in her palm as a blessing. suguru reaches for it, his finger grazes against her cold, pale flesh, and not for the first time does he wonder what she is, and not for the second time does he find that the answer doesn't matter, not that much. inside the pocket of his worn-out uniform, with dried blood still lingering on the edges of it like another memory, one that won't be washed away, no matter how much water is poured over those damned spots, he finds a lighter, a stolen relic of a time that seems to be gone, gone, gone. he places the cigarette against his lips and lights it, and looks away — her gaze seems to cut through him like a scalpel, and like a pathologist observe with clinical precision all of the broken fragments of his insides.

„ it's not — “ a pause, his words lingering in the air as he tries to place them together. „ it's not about duty or want. it's bigger than that. “ suguru takes a drag of the cigarette, the taste of tobacco and smoke burning through his wretched throat, burning the remains of taste that linger, always linger. it feels like a confession, bigger than what he's willing to admit, bigger than what he thought it would be. „ what, you think i wanted to do this? “ and this is the self - evidence that suguru nor god nor her will look at, the truth bent out of shape and making itself known only through a hand that shakes, and shakes, and shakes : there was love, once, and there is love, still. it's the crueler twist of a man's will that makes it so — an anger so potent it will annihilate everything, everything, even yourself.

lamorts

i am the dark mother of that which carries on. i know grief & it knows me. grief is a domesticated animal left at the door. it bites at the hand that reaches for it, it sits in a corner, howls pitifully & waits under the table, hoping for scraps. grief is bestial and vicious, but not the teeth of the animal, just the persistent mark of them. the aftermath of a bite — the reddening and the itching and the missing of it. it is a hand that insists on scratching at the wound or the moment it opens again or even the bleeding of it. it is the habit of repeatedly setting another plate before an empty chair, the hopeful & haunted face that turns around to look at what is not there; yet something remains or you would not look. the shadow lingers, so does the shape of everything else.

this is a story of grief, even when the beginning of it is the cadaverous dark, the monstrous memory that like a spider, devours. the spider is a metaphor, so is the dark crevice it crawls from. i wonder if he is as curious as i am to see which one will swallow the other first. sometimes, grief is rather morbid — but you still have to witness it. there is something comforting, perhaps, in horror, in knowing it is sorrow dressed as something else. or if not sadness, then this is some primal anger that has no place to go but to eat at itself. the horror begins at how young he looks, a boy and his goliath : i mean his anger or maybe the softer parts of it, the great misshapen silhouette of that which he could no longer stomach.

this is a story of newfound hungers too. the oldest myths are often anthropophagus in aesthetics. the first sacrificial altar is the house, the early childhood, a slaughterhouse. the horror is in the consumption of the mother, which is something inherently human, although most would lack the stomach. the irony is that when i point it out, most of you call me a cynic. this is not to say there is only horror & anger here or the remnants of that last lingering sorrow, a mourning he would deny even in the smallest room of his heart. nothing sits there but a boy and a mirror.

❛ well, you have to have wanted this in some manner or you would not have done it. ❜ my voice is not harsh, it curls at the boundaries of what once could be called sharpness. i would not offer tenderness so easily & he would not take it anyway. i know love; that twisted brother to resentment, that strange cousin of fear. there has to have been love at some point, i suppose, or we would not be here. but love balances on its own edge, it serves little purpose other than this. it could not stop horror, it belongs to it. & smoke slithers from my lips and bends and curls under a last cut of light : a dark thing surfacing into softness — perhaps this too will fly over his head. ❛ if you ask me, i reckon you were proving a point or perhaps, trying to. ❜

#curseat #me sentindo a sjm da rpc: cafona e meio burra.

lordkills

evening isn’t heralded by an open sky and soft sunset colours like it is out in the west ; in the city, the sky is choked to death, if not with the black smoke from the factories then with the jagged geometry of lemoyne’s ornate and pompous architecture. there’s no stillness here. civilisation is, according to saint denis, sound —— trolley clanking, hooves on cobblestones, children running in the streets, the men they swindle yelling right after them, chatter in languages he can’t recognise with words twisting in each other so much that they aren’t even words anymore.

he’s been leaning on this bar for half an hour, waiting for word. watching the door like a dog whose master made no promises. the whiskey crawls up his throat in this terrible pleasure - pain stimulus of smoothness and burning, and he’s trying not to let it. but against his better judgement, he’s counting a third glass now. swears it’s a lack of patience even when the corners of the room blur a little.

then he notices @lamorts like he’s looking at an animal through the crosshairs of a rifle ; what’s been there all this time but could only be seen in a certain light. campfire smoke forms a familiar shape sitting next to him at the bar. a woman with hair as dark as the rest of her fanciful menagerie of mourning black, and the most dangerous eyes he’s seen on a woman —— on anyone. then it clicks like a chamber : he’s staring at somebody with a face like every face he’s known. he’s staring at something he shouldn’t be looking at.

but it’s the whiskey, or else the bravery, or else the realisation that this is an opportunity as gone as suddenly it had appeared. this is a fragment of a dream, something bigger than him, and no risk is without its stupidity. ❛❛ i’m sorry, ma’am, but … ❜❜ his voice is distant in his mouth, fingers still, but he refuses to look away. ❛❛ do i know you ? ❜❜

lamorts

a saloon throbs inside the arteries of a city, shimmering and indistinct, like an echo of a heart, the remaining effervescence of warmth entwined into light. there is something fundamentally voyeuristic about sitting in a saloon. i am their ultimate witness. how disturbingly fragile are the objects of my study, how mercurial their moods. they dwell in contradiction. & the last light burns; there is rebirth & resuscitation in a glass of cheap whiskey. no one can say saint denis is not a place of miracles. & the city stretches out unnecessarily, the long tongue of it dark and reaching out into the darkness.

there is a melancholic taste in the air tonight. the larger the city, i think, the larger the need to pile up under exaggerated lights. & the music softly rises, stained with dust like everything else: rusty music cracking its joints as the flamboyant color of the walls fades into the languid black of languid night. it surely preludes slurred words of lonely men that will soon fall into lonely stutter, then silence, maybe, if i am lucky — if you have entered one saloon, you have entered all of them.

there is something about loneliness; it has the habit of lingering by doorways and looking in. there is an open door and a room beyond it. most of it is empty but for the feeling of it once being something else. most stories, one way or the other, are about solitude. or perhaps, solitude permeates it like thread through needle, like needle to flesh. loneliness is a foreign object between one rib and the other, first the nagging of it & then the lacking once the wound has nothing else to gnaw at. but the particularity of it all is that loneliness only exists in parallel to its own the absence : one is only lonely if at some point, he was not.

i proud myself in how utterly democratic i am. i mean i do not pick favorites, i mean this one man is not different from others because he has killed enough to remember my face. but there is a sort of a dog's sadness in him — you understand, then, if i answer. ❛ in the state you are in, arthur morgan, i suspect you might know everyone. ❜

#lordkills #muse: arthur morgan.#there's one (1) good paragraph in there & we all know which one it is.#anyways! at least it's written! it's a reply! it only took me like a week.

⬩ 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐝 ⁱᶠ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ ⁱˢ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ᵉˡˢᵉ ᵗᵒ ʷⁱᵗⁿᵉˢˢ ʰⁱᵐ. & 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 — even yourself. ʰᵃᵛᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵉᵛᵉʳ ʷᵒⁿᵈᵉʳᵉᵈ ʷʰᵒ ⁱˢ ᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ ⁱᵗ ? ⬩ 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 @lamorts .ᐟ ⋆˚࿔ / as created by amanda. ⬩

#indie rp #indie roleplay #oc roleplay #horror rp #fantasy rp #the sandman rp #i guess ?#personals blog do Not interact with this post.#promo post #roleplay promo #original character roleplay #oc rp

unmorts

#about post.#information.#one more small addition to the information links.#might add a visual reference graphic at some point.

we stand in a room of white walls. white not as bone but as the blankness of a page that waits, the color of beginnings. the white so bright and undisturbed it looks like an absense, the endless paleness of it opening into something else. it is a room, or the belly of the whale, where silence hums until it is no longer proper to call it silence. in other stories, with other men, the walls would be softer, the white sterilized like the color of hospitals, the voices would be too loud — but this is not it. the room is but a room, there is little light from a window, and the veil of it pinpoints specks of dust like swirling stars.

a man sits behind a desk, i stand in front of it. there is something to his eye like a touch of iron, a sharpness most would probably dislike, which makes him too clever for his own good, which makes me smile. it is the most feline attempt at it, only a hidden thing at the corner of my lips, but he catches it with the same fierceness he catches everything else, like there is a hunger in him that exists only for this.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 : ❛ you don't scare me ❜, in a voice straining under the weight of itself. his exhaustion sits under his eyes, two shadows like two wounds, the dark line of his jaw set angrily as if there is something unsaid he still holds under his teeth & now it lingers as question mark, a hook to the tender side of the skin.

& 𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫 : ❛ well, detective, i am not trying to ❜, he stares, which is an euphemism, there is that sharpness again when he looks at me & i see it as he sees it, my silhouette against the light, white against white, a story yet to be written. his hand grasps at his pen & i pretend i do not notice the eargerness of it, like a dog on a scent.

#joyuex #cithage #idk which one to tag...#muse: the detective.#the cat and the dog motif just for you...

one day, perhaps, there will be a story of boyhood with less bite to it. magic is the hungry worm sitting under the rind — sometimes, the fruit is a boy, sometimes the fruit is the thing for which a boy is a metaphor. if it vanishes, here is what is left: the house of grief bathed in the incandescent light of his human heart. the boy is an incongruous variety of parts stitched with the sun-dazed blush of a first love. & love is sometimes the father, here is the card of the emperor on his throne. & sometimes, love is the bruised blue in the eyes of another boy, here is the magician with one hand pointing upwards, the simple miracle of no longer being lonely. so the magic purrs. & love can be a nostalgic king and all the dreams of childhood behind him: draw a card, it will be the six of cups.

there is more to a story than the burning of it, beyond dreams of smoke that blend into dreams of light. he is a boy, which is to say despite the magic that eats and the violence of everything else, he is still a boy with his hands intertwined, praying to the starving saint of his guilt at ruinous altar of his anger. the heart stores what lies untold in the silence of clenched teeth, the distance between anger and grief is a closed fist. now the beast of his hunger paces around. part of grief is admitting to it or the taste for it, part of anger is just existing with it.

what stillness grasps tightly at the corners of the woods breaks at the fluttering of wings, the hush of ancient trees in ancient tongue. the green of forests leaks into the dark blue of dreams. i suppose the night forgets its name in cabeswater, there is only an immitation of it & the shadows move like water moves, which is to say the dark is not the dark here, not as it is anywhere else. cabeswater sighs — the sound of it is not a sound, but the feeling of it.

& through @punkcopy, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 : ❛ would things be easier if there was a right way ? ❜

& 𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫 : ❛ i think you will find that right is but one more direction to choose from. you might as well go left and see what comes of it. ❜

#punkcopy #muse: ronan lynch.#not her and her silly little pun.#anyways sometimes it takes me 84 years but trust in the process.#she knows what he means btw. she's just playing cheshire cat.

conjurix-deactivated20251006

the scenery is fluctuating, fluid. a montage steeped in sepia, like she’s been absorbed into an album of old photographs hemorrhaging memories. they’re not hers. they’re hers because they’ve been given to her. bonnie shuffles through moments. ( twin boys, calling out for their mother, a lost translation, a sink that won’t stop leaking. the mother listening to the faucet drip. ) bonnie is submerged in the empty, like getting turned around in a hallway of doors, like she doesn’t have a stomach to hold on to anymore. ( a svelte burlesque dancer, flopped over her vanity, silk robe slipping off her shoulders, fishnet stockings looped tight and final around her throat. her candy-apple red lipstick smeared across her chin from a brutal thumb. )

unsated, starving, like she hasn’t eaten in days, or hasn’t touched or been touched for longer. when’s the last time she’s been vulnerable enough to make love? ( a fisherman — the stench of salt and seaweed — capsized in a storm. ) she’s choking on briny sea water. regret just means drowning backwards.

the forgotten, the abandoned, are bewildered, angry, stuck. they’re voiceless — a mayhem of voices talking over each other, a wail that bursts her eardrums. she can hardly hear the wind now, now that she veers onto the balmy landscape death laid out for her. a park stretching a mile of freshly cut grass, dewy with dawn. there’s only death, meditating on a bench, shaded by the willow that’s become their secret place.

her companions, her remnants, her victims, are buffered in her vicinity, visible in wavery profiles. finding her is instinct — like they’re tethered by invisible cord, like phantom limbs that won’t quit hurting. something of a marriage. do you accept this ring? till death do us part.

❝ i am the curse. the curse is me. however you wanna put it. doesn’t alter the facts. ❞ death’s face is blurry — like she’s an abstract not fully formed. still, bonnie flings around the intruding thought that death is beautiful. ❝ you can’t keep denying entry. the dead already let in? they want out now. they wanna cash in. can you guess how they’re gonna do that? ❞

the other day, a biker was launched from his motorcycle. he bled out on the highway, before reviving unscathed — while bonnie was still sliding through the slick of brain matter. ❝ i’ll tell you — through me. they’re gonna push their way inside me until they’ve shoved me out. until they can walk out on my legs and my breath. ❞

lamorts

at first, ghosts lingers languidly, shapeless shapes at the edge of vision, like pale shadows unfolding, like a word you know & cannot remember, the taste of it there, but not the sound of it. a ghost is muscular memory or bruises under the eyes, the hollow space beneath a cheekbone, renewed sins, renewed virtues, a thousand persistent whispers and then, silence. & through silence, the weight of it. un-loneliness, like sitting in an empty room and knowing it is not empty. it creeps on almost like an yearning, an unsettling intimacy: the beginning of a haunting is courtship. but before the sight of it, there is the feeling of it — the cold touch of cold breath, the shivering or the palpitations, the featherly touch of that which is no longer flesh. a ghost exists between the thought of living and the memory of the first death. they linger until they do not, not unlike a story.

now the scenes opens like so, an embryo of a haunting, the perennial story of the woman in the attic — most would say she is both, the woman who scratches the walls, the room where the ghost wait in. she is the sound behind a window no one dares to look at. & where light has broken the morning mist, across the softness of it, a single ghost is a thousand others, the miracle of multiplication in refracted images. or a ghost is a girl or a girl is a door, a haunted house, & they peek from behind her eyes. they wait, as she waits, & the minutes stretch, a feline metaphor. between the moment she finds me and the silence of it, the world keeps to the stillness of morbid expectation, as if all of it has learned to hold its breath. still, no one dies. & the ghosts persist. the dead supplicate their petrified hunger, their demure compulsion; but there is less bite to their anger when there is no darkened corner to hide, no crevice nor hole where they keep their hypocrisy. i enter the house of their fury and the walls shake.

there is contradictory permanence in death being where death should not be — the irony of it borders on tragedy, i think. i am resolute in my retirement, but i am not without mercy. but sometimes, the divine phenomenon of a miracle is small enough to fit in one hand. so i stare back at her ghosts. the sentiment is perhaps best described as the moment the fish notice the shark: they scatter. here is what i offer her: silence.

the light like shallow water, a muted golden, the green of grass viscous, uncurling into the sharp itch of uncut leaves. i pat the vacant space beside me on the bench and the wood creaks gently, as if it remembered that it was once alive. everything is a haunted story if you have the ears for it. ❛ your dead are already dead, bonnie. i already took them — some of them escaped through the backdoor, i suppose, but it was beyond my authority. my services used to be more on delivery rather than doorkeeping. ❜

#conjurix #verse: death with interruptions.#sorry it took me 975 business days to get back to you.#heyyy i love this already <3 thank you for this thread #& i'm sorry i couldn't match the length / number of paragraphs properly this time.#something something death offering bonnie peace and quietness cause the ghost will not dare to say a thing to her...#[ that's their mother ]

⬩ WHAT WOULD YOU BE THE GOD OF ? .ᐟ ⋆˚࿔

winter and death. you’re known for your self-discipline and rigidity. although you may be perceived as cold and intimidating by those who don’t directly worship you, you’re actually quite fair and polite. your followers pray to you for a safe winter and peaceful death.

⬩ tagged by: i found it somewhere. ⬩ tagging: everyone who sees this. 𖹭

#well. what a surprise.#these are gonna be my new approach to character studies.#never writing anything again. it's all just random quizes.

⬩ WHAT PATRON SAINT ARE YOU? .ᐟ ⋆˚࿔

patron saint of silence. you are the patron saint of empty spaces, cavernous rooms, moments that last for days. for some people, the emptiness is horrible, something that they need to fill: you, its patron, try to search within it for peace. there is nothing there. there is never anything there. even the emptiness is not a presence of its own. the only thing there is you.

⬩ tagged by: no one. i do what i want. 𖹭 ⬩ tagging: @cithage & @joyuex, @lordkills, @punkcopy ( for ronan ), @curseat, @conjurix, @demonblud & @hunterblud, @euryedice [ & whoever else wants to do it ]

#the way this suits her so well...#death as the saint of silence is such an image.

intimacy lives in a place within translation itself; intimacy which is loneliness backwards. it fits in the little space between a touch and the waiting for it, hand and palm translated into a closeness that exists only in the silence shared between two people — there is one moment of it, like the mouth knows the word and gasps or sighs for it, but prefers the quietness of intimacy & moves for touch instead. this is how i would describe a kiss. the first time always tastes like iron & salt.

the scene is the desert again, the once dry world, hah ! the slow thickness of it. this is where the darkness that settles over the scenery preludes the trembling before a revelation, that is, the first gasp of the body, how one shudders & shivers & sweats when the ecstasy comes, drop by drop of salt and water. i would not call it a pilgrimage — this is no holy place, not tonight, the divine here is the flesh, only ever the touching and holding of it and the sounds of it in the desert. the dust turns under us, silence breaks under his breath in my ear, the sand hushes under the weight of the wind upon it, the thrusting of it, only to rise again with animal-like movement. my body rises too, a feast inside the throat of some bestial wolf, the hungry animal of his masculinity that answers to me.

between silence & a sigh, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 : " i don't know why, but every now and again in my life … for n̴̈́o̵̾ r̷̖̈e̶a̴sö̸n at all … i need you. à̶̳l̶͂l̷̤̒ o̵̡͌f̷ yo̶͙̎u. "

& in the desert there is the seeking of hands after other hands & discarded clothes which have no comment other than the fact they sit on the desert, untouched, while bodies do touch. he has his arms wrapped around me as moonlight licks at the cold of his fingertips, as my skin softly bruises to the soft purple of dusk, the same dark colors of a wound, like the one which blooms on his throat. we are arched ribs, arched hips, the two of us peeled away to the underside of tenderness, raw flesh now ready to ache, his body disappearing as it enters another body, eclectic and promiscuous, the way light pierces a prism.

as his body curls around mine, over me, mouth to my mouth, body to my body, i see him watching me. to have a ghost stare back at you and beg for the food of your passion; or if not passion, the other word, or the beginning of it.

𝐬𝐨 𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫, between a gasp and a sigh : ❛ if only you would leave your denial out of the conversation, you could have me for longer than tonight. ❜

#nsfw.#lordkills #muse: lamb.#i mean. there is nothing to look at here people.#anyways i hope no cowboy runs into them.

it begins with flesh — the sanguinary delights of being that which inhabits inside one small miracle. i understand god & his capricious, carnivorous hunger for the body. a sharp-edged spine, the swelling of the blood, muscle or heart that in unison weave themselves in and out of the body, everything sings in here. the pulse which throbs, the sigh which dies at the first breath. i split the side of the body into an open wound so i may enter it, my metaphorical hook into an allegorical mouth. then i step inside myself : let there be woman ( if you are into this sort of humor ). this is skin which i have stitched together to make it mine, a body of flesh, that will know touch for touch itself. & now, not without morbid satisfaction, i touch the place between one rib and another, finger to skin to bone.

i feel myself dissolving entirely into fragmentary sensations: the wind which recognizes me but not this body, the softness of mortality, the first touch from my palm & i breathe for the first time. this is air, this is sound. the consequence of flesh is the feeling of it or rather, the being. i am contaminated by it, or inebriated, perhaps, is a better word. i look at the ground spotted with the flamboyant orange of sunset and light fills the folds of my clothes, raw and inexorable light. this meat is still incredulous of the simple pleasure of being. in any other story, you would call this a birth.

& he, the @dreamkinge, would call it unnecessary whims of a restless mind. i did not anticipate the stubbornly swirl of two black on black eyes or the subtle way his jaw is set, slighly clentched in a way he looks almost human. he is obsessively efficient like that, a clock that marks the hour right as it strikes. i have little inclination for impulse — whatever insubstantial blood through our insubstantial veins, he & i are the same. the thought of it is oddly comforting. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 : "this is not the way", & i answer:

❛ the way is whatever we make it, dream. there are no specific rules against this. ❜

#dreamkinge #verse: the sandman.#or death puts on a human suit for the first time and pretends to be mortal as a treat [ she's bored ]

𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ! & a kiss (with tongue) for everyone who replies "general kenobi". thanks, everyone, for being so gentle and positive to me earlier this morning: a special thank you for cora, rose and caliope. ♡ i'm currently almost done with dinner and then i'll attempt to write one (1) reply for tonight. apparently i can only manage one per night, but we're doing our best. once again, thank you for being so patient with me 𖹭.ᐟ my DMs and discord are open for all so if you just want to chat, i'm all yours!

#my head is hurting so bad you guys i need to be put down #maybe it's the last brain cell fighting for its last breath.

at the darkness in the heart of the earth, that chthonian place of waiting, there is a ghost who refuses to be so. beneath darkness, more of it. that soothing blackness that was once yours, the primordial venter, and that which swallows you back when the last gift of the world calls: myself. the dead do not miss the light, they hunger for their beginnings, the womb they know by instinct that they walk back into when they reach the end & rewind the tape, here comes the same story which begins again. death is darkness which unfolds into more darkness, obsessively & voraciously, until you find yourself walking into the story you just left.

a ghost is a thing half-buried in the underside of a story, sitting in sunken silence at the edge of your vision, dissolving into the shape of memory. they are creatures of repetitive routines. ghosts, more often than not, come back to old vices. i suppose the last thing to be forgotten is the mouth. this one, @cithage, if he could, would wear his corpse like an old suit; but the flesh has now turned to flint, the bones no longer remember they once walked under patches of light & the only memory left is his hunger, the growl in his belly, the flammable green of fiery eyes.

𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬: " you have no power over me. " [ in certain ways, he is right — it is not that i lack the power, however, i only lack the interest. ]

like his hunger, his ego is mostly teeth, so i keep my eyes on the dark slash of shadow across his cheekbone. it hangs from him like a metaphor or a question, the sharpness of dark against the paleness of a cadaverous face makes a most commely contrast of aesthetics. he is a man whose emptiness persists like a lingering malignant wound, the shape of him is cut sharply against a story that has closed itself around him — still, with a lack of subtlety, he insists. he is stubborn like that. i answer his sense of importance with a wave of my hand. the shadows recoil, the room curls around itself. ❛ not everything is a matter of power. ❜

#cithage #can i get away with writing darkness so many times in the same post?#maybe! maybe not!

𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. there is a hole in the world and i could fit in it. no one has died in 578 days. your death rattles behind the cage of your bones and i pretend i do not listen. it is morning now, the early parts of it, when the sky does not yet remember that it should be blue & the air is still stained with vestiges of the moon. i like these pale hours of contemplation between sleep and everything else, when the world does not know that it should be a world. the morning sits in liminality, i sit on a park bench. there is a comforting familiarity in the pale humming of silence. it stretches lazily in a wind that brushes, bruises, bends the trees into curtsying. perhaps now you smell a summer storm in the distance, an animal that lurks but has little bite. i miss silence, or the first versions of it, when everything was too young for the word "cacophony" to exist.

there was a time you were still more flesh than mind, so the first language had been thought, that is to say, you had little to speak out into the world & your only inventions had been the fire and dreams. silence was more of itself then than it is now. the itinerant storm of human will ( forcefully and unrelentingly ) killed silence. the bible says to be murdered is the primordial act of submission — it is not written in there, but i have taken certain literary creativity. i want you to understand that the human species likes control or rather, the fantasy of it. i have taken it from them.

death is an empty word now. the name is no longer name nor function. there is no need for it in a world which remembers me as a myth of the self. & they still blame me for a crime i am not guilty of, no more than a bullet at the mouth of a gun. if you must know, things did not change much — their mouths still shape the word that was my name and the sound comes drenched with the black feeling of their anger. anger is sometimes fear, fear is sometimes the absence of everything else. i remain the sharp object of one more crime: retirement. the part of the body that makes anger still remembers the shape of me. i wash my hands of it.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧: "there's a curse for you, and i have heard it", says one bonnie bennett, the @conjurix, when she finds me under the willow again. she has a gift for holding grief which is not hers at the concavity of her chest. there, a heart and a ghost share so little space you could mistake one for the other — a thousand of them peek from behind her eyes now. there is softness in the recognition of ghosts. she has a nose for my scent, like hounds for foxes. i am the axis she orbits around still.

❛ one more curse or another will not change the scenario. i no longer serve the old institutions. ❜

#conjurix #verse: death with interruptions.#look... i'm aware that this is offensively long...#but please don't feel obligated to write as much as i did.#in fact for our own good and that of the local population #we should make everything shorter and ignore all my attempts to chatter extensively.#anyways! sorry it took me 30 years to write you something. it's been rough out here.#thinking of the sandman comics and the attempts of an occult society to summon death and trap her... maybe for another thread... hit me up?

#since i can no longer find my own words #i shall leave it to saramago to speak what i cannot #and may You understand that which i will not speak but i Know in my heart already...#anyways! do you See the vision?#maybe i should write god. maybe i should find myself one.#personal reference.

curseat

THE MIND IS AN ABYSS : a bottomless void in the middle of the self, a disembodied fragment of something that once was, the transformation into something that will be. becoming requires recreation — or, rather, decreation : the undoing of the self as a string that unravels from the torn thread of a overworn sleeve. the mind is dark, cavernous, hungry — the mind is a mouth that will bite at itself until it is satisfied, only it is never satisfied and therefore it will eat itself into an early grave. THE MIND IS A TUMOUR ; THE MIND IS AN OUROBOUROS.

if getō suguru were a braver man, he would have walked into the house on the corner of the street, hidden beneath the branch of an oak tree — there, he would have faced the mother and the father that put him into this scorched earth and . . . and what? here, standing underneath the dying of the light as the last fragment of the moon is hidden by a darkened cloud ( a fitting metaphor, he supposes, as the half-illuminated face is by darkness encompassed ) , his hands shake. somewhere, within him, a juveline force gnaws at the heart of him, the incessant need to be right, the virulent disgust at all else that surrounds him — there is no world in which that happened where this does not happen after : VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE , VIOLENCE NEEDS JUSTIFICATION , VIOLENCE IS JUSTIFIED BY VIOLENCE.

when all is said & done, there is less screaming than he would have expected. perhaps that is what settles the rumbling in his stomach, what makes him keep what little he ate the day before — he feels the satisfaction within the curses' body, which is to say there is some satisfaction within his own, like a serpent that slithers through him, like puppets that he strings along. there is no point in explaining that which cannot be explained — there is no word in the world that could describe the weight of the world's rot sitting inside the body of a man. he's done being understood, anyway.

suguru raises his eyes, looks at her in the face, blinks calmly. there's a grace to prentending that he has grown accustomed to, the masks you wear in order to pass through life — a nihilistic smile, then, though there's hardly any need for it, here. if he were to smile, now, he might end up throwing up. a beat, as he takes in her words, weighs the truth on the back of his throat, on the tip of his tongue. „ sometimes we have to do things that won't make any difference in how we feel, but we have to do them anyway. “ only this . . . you are going to carry this, boy, carry this for a long, long time. „ that's just part of living. “

lamorts

tomorrow they will find the bodies like two ripen fruit, their discarded carcasses against the soft cut of sunlight, shadow & warmth intertwined — the flesh too pale, too collapsed into its own coldness. fathers & sons interminably sacrificing each other, the mother lying open once more as the child crawls out of the wound. it matters little if it was by human hand or by the mouth of a beast, the anger is still all his, the blood is still there. tonight, the body of the father is a lamb put through a knife, the body of the mother is empty but for her last sigh. & his tall shadow dangles over them: a child out of the cocoon of boyhood and into more brutal aesthetics. perhaps he has found he has catholic appetites. he grows carnassial teeth. now the blood drips calmly from his forehead. two ghosts look upon his work and despair.

there is an older story of a son who offers the father the fruits of his labour: it is no irony that god would accept the meat and the blood but leave the rest to silence. discontentedness has grown since then, attached to men like fleas. & now the throbbing organ of his anger is stilled. the first story repeats itself through the many branches of the tree it hangs itself from. there is something nihilistic to him that i have seen before, a cold bitterness dressed in self-righteousness. moonlight, perhaps more merciful than both of us, touches his face and then, only then, there are no more strange edges. he has learned he has the makings of a haunted house & it is too late now to escape the gaze of those within.

i do not ask if he wants to know what his ghosts have to say, that like tumorous masses, they sit at the dark pit of his belly and call out for him. many species cannibalize their progenitors, even if metaphorically. after tonight, his nameless name will go unspoken unless touched by fear, rage or empty desire, that weak hunger of the weak minded that only want something to consume. but by the final chapter, he will hear his name again and there will be love and then, only me. i do not say how young they sound to my ears or how old he looks in the shadow now that the moon has no stomach left to tolerate the scene. there is only the waiting and white silence.

i do the only civilized thing left: i extend a hand. a cigarette sits upon my palm like a small miracle, white against white. ❛ do we ? duty & want taken to such extremes only get you so far. ❜

#curseat #is this too catholic?#maybe it's too catholic.#quick ozymandias reference in there.

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