{/as he stuck up another flyer advertising his flower shop, William sighed in displeasure, sticking down a corner with more tape. This wasn't the most interesting thing he had ever done, but it was necessary to keep business up. He riffled through the stack of paper, smiling to himself as he saw he didn't have much left, until a gust of wind came along and blew the sheets out of his hands-- And right into a strangers face.}
[/No particular reason is granted for his hypersensitivity, yet Minseok had awoken with the bubbling feeling at his fingertips that it was, without actual justification, entirely necessary — probably due to the subdued waves of jet lag swinging itself against his mind because man, he should have stayed in his apartment and indulge himself in the indolent lifestyle of a man like himself, who is in his late 20’s. The gradual escalation of his headache, however, is brought to no justice as sheets of paper are brought to suddenly smack him in the face, much to his surprise, yet he doesn’t display any emotions of negativity, instead, more inclined towards curiosity.] This yours?
Never be in a hurry; do everything quietly and in a calm spirit. Do not lose your inner peace for anything whatsoever, even if your whole world seems upset.
How do we reach a point where we wake up in the morning, only for our minds to tell our hearts that we are not worth it. That when we look in the mirror, toothbrush in hand, frost on the valley of our lips, we tell ourselves that this should stop because we are not worth it. When our lovers have their whispers burning "I love you's" on our skin, we feel their heartbeat drumming romantic ballads into our ears, yet we find ourselves back in square one, telling ourselves that we are not worth it. That all this, from the cup of coffee we drink, to the bed we lose ourselves in, to the friends we hold, to the darlings we keep, we are not worth it. When do we reach that point where we stop looking at mirrors, and hair starts to grow, and our eyes cradle crust, and our hands cover our ears, and we tell ourselves not to look, to avoid looking, that we are not even worth it for our own selves. Why do we reach this point where we stop thinking that we are not beautiful and we are not worth it, why plunge ourselves in to only force ourselves out, why, why, why. Why. Why. Why.
Words are the tattoos against his tongue, commas and full stops the piercings that embellish his sentences, the breaths that fall past his lips taking it upon their absolute freedom to be the semicolons that thread themselves into a single vessel. He cradles memories on the pads of his fingertips, just like how his palms tow his bulk of luggage behind him, wheels dusting away the soil of foreign lands that sink themselves deep into his footsteps. Lungs have nearly forgotten the taste of South Korean air, muscle memory on the brink of losing the ability on how to provide shelter for its indefinite, yet renown resident. But ah, such familiarity, such nostalgia as he embraces the dialect that's inked against the back of his throat. "It's good to be back."
Thrill surges through his veins like a water dam with a disastrous hole in its base, it flows with steady yet incredible currents, seemingly safe from afar, but savage if closely encountered, a feeling that Crow holds close to his chest, allowing it to be nurtured by the influx of adrenalin injected into his bloodstream. With a challenge upholding potential fatalities, it's not a time for him to experience such a sensation, but no -- exhilaration nearly outruns the needed sternness, taking it by the neck and suffocating its shrivelling remains. The look on Crow's face, if not half-concealed by a mask -- is the epitome of a blank canvas, empty in its broad expanse, poker-faced, sustaining icebergged emotions that -- oh -- if only the public could see. If only the photographers could seize the moment with the cityscape bestowing firefly lights behind him. If only.
With his eyes closed, Crow can feel it, sense it, clutch it within his fingers and bring it up to his lips, tasting the rich flavour of freedom on his tongue, ecstasy serving as the aftertaste that's tattooed against the back of his throat. He forgets about the trembling throbs of pain bordering unbearable excruciation, all inflicted by the Air Trecks securely fastened around his feet -- he has been riding for seven hours without cease, and despite the constant rushes of bliss, he's reaching his limit, aware that atrocious injuries are bound to surface if he doesn't decide to stop. But he doesn't, and that's where the problem occurs.
It's when the first bullet is shot that it happens, a bitter pang that travels from the base of his spine up to the back of his neck, it presses him into missing a beat of movement, and at first, he thinks that the attempt was victorious, that the kid has managed to wound him, but there's no blood, no symptoms of a gunshot -- he's pushing himself into maximum overdrive and his body is begging him to rest.
No, no, no. Crow dismisses the plea, ignoring the aftermath of aches that begin to emerge, prickling his flesh like needles through skin, but he forces himself to bear it, forces himself to re-activate his Air Trecks -- there's no reason to stop now that it has started. It would be a dent in his pride if he called off something he initiated, utterly humiliating for one like himself, particularly with a reputation he is willing to keep grounded. Meagre pain like this is a fruitless distraction he refuses to succumb to, and by all means, showcasing a weak impression to a stranger is not on his agenda for the night.
The wind is a drug in itself, finer than any joint of marijuana or hit of cocaine he has taken in his existence, it's the backbone of his being, the staircase of his spine, a porcelain bowl cradling the very essence of Kim Minseok. To Crow, being the seeker and attainer of freedom, it is the feeling of wind against his skin that keeps his lungs running, his heart racing; it is what drives him into wanting more, a need for speed, a constant aspiration that fills him up to the rim of his soul. It's an aspect he shares with Minseok -- they share a lot of things together, but this one is a master that keeps the both of them tied as one, inseparable natures brought together by a single thread of desire.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
Five bullets -- Crow counts, and his breath hitches when he senses them piercing through the atmosphere; he swivels on a certain angle, one foot stabilising himself on the cable, the other hanging off, but he doesn't lose his balance, nor does he halt in his tracks. He overworks his eyes to approximate how long each will take before they hit him . . . less than one second, not much leeway for him to bolt, and there's not much time left for him to think -- he has to act quick.
Lungs expand when a deep inhale is taken, exhale just as prolonged, and he lifts the limb that's left suspended with sheer muscle, almost like striking what's not there, and the gesture has him propelling into the air; he spins once, but on the second revolution, a leg is raised, tremendous pressure focused on the tips of the Air Trecks -- and he kicks. The move causes the wind to croon, driving a phenomenal current of air to smack the bullets from clashing into him, a triumphant smile embellishing his disguised lips as he watches them worthlessly clink against the road below. He remains sailing through the sky, the previous skill allowing him to quietly soar; being able to be at par with bullets has a light swirl of victory within him and he wasn't expecting it to actually work.
But wait, something is not right --
"Fuck!" he curses, teeth immediately digging into his bottom lip when a brute sting is plunged into his left thigh, the pain petrifying his system into a standstill, preventing him from executing any further movements whether it would be attack or defence.
He missed one bullet.
With an absurd thunk, he at least manages to land on two feet, but the weight of the touchdown causes a crushing burden against his wound, and he staggers, until his back manages to lean against a lamppost for support. He peels his jacket off, clamping it over the injury, splotches of red tainting the extravagant fabric, but he can't bring himself to even give a shit. His senses are all distorted from the agonising thrusts of torment, blinding him from practicality, but he just somewhat manages to maintain composure.
"God dammit, kiddo -- " he hisses to the heavens, body exhausted with his limits gone weary, "You've really done it, haven't you? Of all the fucking places you shoot, you got my leg."
I enjoy controlled loneliness. I like wandering around the city alone. I’m not afraid of coming back to an empty flat and lying down in an empty bed. I’m afraid of having no one to miss, of having no one to love.
Kuba Wojewodzki, Polish journalist and comedian (via bodv)
Surely, the woman doesn’t disagree to his words. If anything she agrees to it silently, she doesn’t nod her head or speak about it verbally. Emotions or speaking about how she feels whether it’s an opinion or disagreement is normally tucked away for herself to know. An airy chuckle slips past the center of the rosy tinted lips, supposed her lack of remembrance takes a tole of remembering some names as well. If the woman hasn’t spoken or seen them in a certain period of time.
“Well there’s nothing too wrong with that, we all have our tendency to be forgetful once in a while.” Or at least herself and the companion in front of her thus far. Fingers removed the space between the others on one hand, they interlock effortlessly. “If you’d like, perhaps every time we encounter one another, I’ll wear a name tag so my name won’t be forgotten.” Offering with a sheepish grin, there’s a playful tone in the way she speaks to lighten up the atmosphere between them.
[/His head is lightly tipped backwards as yet another string of laughter is emitted by him, albeit more out of reminiscence than humour, and once he settles, lips begin to tilt into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, nevertheless, still genuine with the gentle press of the pastel pink it's tilted in.] You're quite charming, you know that? But name tags, huh -- reminds me of that time in kindergarten and primary school when the teachers would make you wear one of those, and you could decorate them with glitter pens and coloured markers. [/His tone carries an evident speck of sentimentality, fond recollections unfolding as seconds tick by, but he doesn't dwell in the memories -- not this time at least; he doesn't want to succumb to them, doesn't want to them to burden the discussion.]
I love those mornings when you wake to darkness and no one is asking anything of you. You’re under no pressure to exist. This is something of which I am in constant need.
- a soft chuckle leaves her lips and she gives the young man a smile- It wasn’t “show-offy” at all. It was beautiful, I loved it. - she compliments, grinning at him, clasping her hands in front of her. She was finally on her break after spending non-stop hours at the cafe serving drinks and pastries, her cousin had finally come to her rescue. So, for her lunch break, she decided it was time to take a much needed walk, finding herself drawn to a melody playing in the air, leading her to the young man in front of her. - How long have you been playing? - she tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, a bit shyly. She has never been so forward with a conversation before. -
Thank you. I don't really like playing out in the open like this, so I honestly don't know what made me eventually come here. [/He's been blessed with praising compliments regarding his playing, but he's always grateful for each one that's received, his upbringing teaching him to be appreciative with whatever he's presented with, whether big or small.] Well, I started when I was four with the violin . . that makes it twenty three years of experience, since I'm twenty seven. [/He chuckles, never quite realising that time had stretched by so quickly, it's unbelievable and breathtaking all at once for him to take in, that his skills have been chiseled so brilliantly, polished enough for him to be deemed as a violin virtuoso.]
"Oh." Silently hoping that she wasn’t bothering the other male by appearing so suddenly. It was never a good first impression to disturb one’s peace overall. So her palm presses against the side of her neck to rub it in small circles in order to conceal any embarrassment. Though when she received a proper introduction, her lips curve into a small smile. She returns the curt bow of the head out of mere respect before straightening her posture. "As the same for you, Minseok." Lifting a hand to let her palm brush along his own, a delicate grasp to shake it effortlessly. "The name’s Naeun or most people call me Nae too, the choice is yours."
[/It takes him a little more than a second to return the bow, motioning only a shallow dip of his head in his haste, hoping that in his moment of hesitance, it doesn't imply any curtness. He falls into the shameless category of those being distracted rather easily, not because of the lack of interest, but simply because -- because. It's a habit that sticks to him like a parasite and ridding of it is a procedure beyond of his grasp.] Nae, it is then. I'm terrible with names. Everything is already so complicated -- why do we have to name ourselves with complication too. [/An airy smile is sent your way after a breath is heaved past his lips, carefully tucking his hand behind his back as his opposite arm locks it into place, fingers coiled around his wrist.] Or it could just be me and -- you know -- being bad with names.
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
germansingergirl
janainaart
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
stormborns
