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@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?
Go for it. Whether it ends good or bad, it was an experience.
(via trueheroinex)
anatomical resolution pt. i:
vallen kim is a colossus of lies constructed by the group of researchers ( unethical, illegal ). he was one of many projects ( class genetics ) and he was given powers that could transform into biological weapons had he known and harnessed them. he was half-finished, in actuality, and the researchers decided to do another experiment ( sort of ) of releasing him with incomplete brainwashing in seoul as a ‘prototype’. experiments will be disclosed in part two.
what is told to him: his name, his birth date, his family. memories of childhood and adolescence are fabricated, so are his ‘friends’. told that he came from montreal, canada, where his ‘parents’ still reside. his parents told him to start anew in seoul, where he was supposed to grow in ( because vallen’s family moved to canada when he was four ), supplied with endless monetary means. he was told that he suffered from amnesia as an impact of illegal racing that ended up in an accident. all pictures of his growing up were forged, so were all documents. he had friends in montreal; paid teenagers from a high school that he was supposed to attend.
was a victim to human trafficking. kidnapped when he was sixteen; lee joohyuk, from a suburban part in busan. his korean, however, has been altered to seoul accent during the experiment and he’s grown so much he might be extremely different from what he looked like pre-experiment. now twenty, twenty-one in korean. born march thirteenth as vallen. missing case of lee joohyuk has been closed after the findings of a corpse in a small storage in busan, the teeth record showing that it was him.
❛ don't hurt me. ❜
// BLUEPRINTED FOR THE VITAL NEEDS OF @k97ml
imagine there’s a sphere that represents the globe of his mind in which everything is mapped but the 90% of it was made of nothing but empty ocean with aphotic beasts sleeping and stirring underneath ( and without his knowledge, they actually never sleep – just lie dormant in the wait to eat him inside out as they sharpen their claws ) and the rest is just the topography of branded nightmares and syllogistic memories. from the latter comes the inklings of the night that smelled rotten with purpling knuckles bathed drenched soaked with red that did not spill from his veins ( exhibit one: the beasts always know when to expose themselves best and cause him to grow lesions from his own self-blame afterwards ). he would say it’s self-defense – waking up with a start from the result of broken dreams that stab their shards in his amnesic flesh and starting to point fingers at himself mirrored self a reflection to the absence of repentance and here he would come with reasons as to why it was not self-defense because he was actually made out of barbed wires and electrocution chair; he would ask appa and umma but it would make them wear that static sorrow on their countenances and he can’t can’t can’t. but maybe this is why the starting anew was determined to be somewhere so far from home. maybe this is why he was sent away, cast away; all bruised from veiled post-trauma and hazed retentions. ( good thing he was left with the webbed windshield, or else there would be more people hurt – maybe. ) the other’s plea feels more like a meandering trip to the estuary between then and now. winces a little as he asks, “why do you think i would hurt you?”
( 片時 ) ➝ he regards him in familiarity, the other he saw wandering the abyss that is his city. he had been busy, busy with meandering the intersections of home with receding footfalls to dispel the obscurity threaded in his head. it could have come in two yet what drifted was zero. for a while, he’s looking at his fingers, trying to re-imagine the cartilage and the question burned in each socket. he was like him? they were analogous. but it confused him, somewhat. he was his own and vallen was vallen; vallen the odd. the one who laughed and covered his hubris with mellow displacement. in retrograde he knew no differences between his left and vallen’s right, save that he seemed much more habituated to the circumstances. but he knew no discomfort with him, though he purses his lips in mock abhorrence for the jokes he created with his moniker. he would say he was proud, carelessly unperturbed, but vallen – vallen the weird strikes him; and he’s inhaling when he feels the warmth and he’s looking away when there is no retort. at first, he had taken the request seriously; he tolerated chicken, all taunting aside – then at once realizing, is he fucking with me again?
he retorted with pork and he’s outsmarted. in the end, he struggles to explain, “i- can’t actually do that. you do it or i’m going home.”
take a scalpel and dissect: in the pulmonary arteries of the city there are always splatters of paints that never cease to amaze him, but his tools lie in the arts of performing open heart surgeries with the tip of his pen, veins sunken shallow with the running ink as its cardiovascular theme. the city streets are blood vessels with a running systems with the buildings being the skeletons, and in this joint where katsu resides, he finds another solace that feels like a shard of glass lodged in the flesh – hurts a little for he’s never known the stale space of poverty in the short expanse of his memories; the entire extent crammed with the parental premonitions of monetary necessities that never abrade to the point of trepidation. in retrospect is the sans problems when it comes to that; but the ghosts that reside within the crevasses of his bones do not let their curled fingers loose around his neck. but this is night. nights are when shadows become less of a stark black against the burning sunlight in the undulating weather, and more of the softer globules of movement replicas that he’s learned to ignore. the twitch, the tweak. the discord an accessory glinting at the corner of his peripheral view as he walks with someone considered a friend, and the answer at least ushers him away from the slight distortions of katsu’s shadows. count comes in milliseconds but somehow thought progresses in the same measure as well. distraction welcomed, and he lets out a hearty laugh. “it was a joke. don’t worry, it’s all on me. we should go and have some barbecue.”
❝ nevermind chicken. let's go eat pork.
// BLUEPRINTED FOR THE VITAL NEEDS OF @hykatsu
found this man in the crevice of the city late at night when the shadows did not flicker as much as they usually did when his mood was on a plateau as though static had taken over his body and fisted his sternum with such a force; found this man in the crevice of the city late at night as late as he liked it to be. upturned silence with the palate of seoul’s mouth painted blue black ( there should be a name of the shade but this was not what he could remember but maybe in his life before he’d known the name of it specifically – who would know, who would know ); the trembles of the distant sound of the car horns of the night owls brought by a variable of velocity that complemented the quiet footfalls his sneakers soles scuffing against the sidewalk all pavements – paved with the leftovers of people’s presences. remembers asking him the intention, the reason, the moniker. katsu, he said; remembers laughing for the last time he recalled such a word was in a japanese restaurant and katsu, katsu who did not know much, who did not remember much. katsu who was on the same boat as him the same boat that floated adrift off the coastal understandings. katsu whom he could relate with, and katsu whom he finally started trusting. purloined from him was the initial wariness; now katsu could perhaps be spoken of as someone whom he holds close, fingers enclosed around the man’s arm when it comes to the measure of friendship. the invitation comes and the invitation goes. he asked for chicken, katsu asks for pork. “ironic,” is all that he says at first, but then he shrugs. “i love pork belly. you’re paying.”
PARTITURE OF EMPTIED DREAM SOCKETS &. HARMONY IN COASTAL NIGHTMARES. – – – PLAYING THE ORCHESTRA ON 15 . 04 . 16 !
// ARRHYTHMIA IN PROGRESS: @jikanism ; @hyemistry ; @txhun – – – song-based starters. @kairouac ; @k97ml ; @jcaecus ; @malificvs ; @kouteku – – – starters & replies.
// METASTASIS &. DIRTY HANDS: @whitexrabbits ; @definedbyproxy ; @eunaessi ; @kmsoy ; @ircane ; @hykatsu – – – waiting, take your time. @vignetiism ; @archaistes ; @goreravens ; @nuhesho – – – plotting.
// VISCERAL SPILLAGE IN STORE: please take your time if you owe me anything + i’m taking my time with the replies & starters i have. also, please tell me if i missed or misplaced you ! – – – you can like this post if you’d like to plot, or add me on aim ( demisemantic ) for ooc purposes !
Lee Taeyong.
FEARS & DISCOMFORTS:
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 || sex || chains || inner demons || hallucinations || staring || going berserk || betrayal ||
TAGGED BY: @archaistes TAGGING: @hykatsu @arcynide @eunaessi @goreravens @malificvs
15:01:06:09:??
they told me to shush i was screamign screaming screamng so hard my lung s about to collapse please i miss appa umma noona don’t they don’t know don’t need to know i can’t feel myself anymore they will cry they will cry joohyuk don’t make people cry joohyuk don’t
god they put so many needles my skin i don’t know if it looks like skin anymore they infused things in me my hands are trembling i can feel something is coming alive in me. someone help me help me get me out of here if you’re reading this, please help!! can anyone listen i screamed so hard they told me to shut the fuck up and suddenly i understand languages joohyuk didn’t speak oh my god what are they turning me into
i don’t understand wh
HI. I am a fan, YES. Uhm. I am planning on joining! Tumblr rp I mean. But I don't really know, I mean. I. My writing sucks. So. I just. Can you give me tips? On how to write. And avoiding purple prose??? IDEK. I, sorry!
oh my goodness, i didn’t know how long this message has been sitting in my inbox due to tumblr’s impeccable notification system-- so sorry ! also been preoccupied by something else, but hope you see this. first off, i would like to thank you for saying you’re a fan because ///// u ///// it’s such an honor ! thank you so much. <3 ( and don’t be sorry, what are you sorry for omg-- )
and i’m sure your writings do not suck; we all just have to start somewhere. i don’t know what purple prose is, actually. i mean, the meanings have been circulating and each has their own opinion regarding what falls into the purple prose and not. and i really don’t know which side i’m in, apart from using huge words plucked from the thesaurus just so that your writings appear sophisticated ( when they are not necessary and can be replaced by simpler words with same meanings, and when they’re merely there for the fascination purpose that they don’t serve the correct / intended meanings ). so, going from there, i actually think that what some people think as purple prose is not actually bad ! using big, archaic words when your muse is an old immortal vampire would be a++++ for characterization. so i can’t really tell you how to not purple prose, apart from don’t just use words for the sake of awing people. the rest, you write how you want to write.
tips of writings... i’m really not the right person to ask because i’m very experimental ( as this account is, i like sentences running improper punctuations etc. since he doesn’t remember much and is always confused -- write accordingly to the character, i’d say ). i don’t read much, but i think some people would say, read everything ! it’s not always classics, or anything else that people like. read what you like. i have a terrible attention span so i read poems. i would also tell you to write for yourself, always always always. don’t listen to what people say, which is rich coming from me who has insecurities lv 999999, but i’ve learned not to write to satiate or fascinate people. write for yourself, first and foremost. find your style, find your voice. make yourself happy ! writing is supposed to be a cathartic outlet for you in the first place. it’s an expression and a hobby. ‘sucks’ is just what you think people think, sometimes. don’t be too hard on yourself ( again, rich coming from me ), and just slowly develop. practice, practice, and practice. it takes me years to master the language itself, english being my second language. it takes me years to find my voice too, which is what i’m still exploring. so patience is important, but when it’s your hobby, it will make you happy and improvements will follow.
just another addition from me is that to make sure that your sentences are not winding. this is different from what i do here on projecture, since he’s an outlet of experimental writings with winding sentences and irregular structures. if your intention is not that, however, it’s very important to deliver meanings to your reader ( mostly rp partner, but yes ). good writings are very, very subjective, so don’t press yourself to fulfil what people think is good. learning from what might be good for your writings would be nice, but filling in the standards that people impose is another thing. it’s back to the whole writer for yourself. that’s all i can say as tips, sorry ! i don’t have an arsenal of tips considering that i no longer see writings as HOW TO WRITE WELL but more as a form of self-expression. read the writing tips from blogs if that suit your fancy ( and it might be good for a starting point ! ), and adjust and readjust and explore and improve. i think that’s what writing is about. so i wish you the best of luck, and poke me when you join tumblr rp so we can write together ! <3
kouteku:
『 — ♛ Kou never expected to have a drink in his hand. He also never expected to return to such a familiar place for the first time in forever. But he couldn’t help it; even past workers get discount. The thought of remembering gave him a headache, but he knew it will soon fade away by the time he sipped his drink. Plus, he only came here for one thing; alcohol. It was a heavy night for him with constant thoughts of wanting to remember, and wanting to leave everything in the past. But for now, the only thing he wanted is for his mind to go blank. Tilting his head back, he gulps the poison down in one go, a sigh breathing past his lips. By the time he set down the glass, he noticed the male sitting next to him who wanted to pull on small talk. Although the small talk only lead to deep talk.
『 — ♛ It never bothered Kou one bit, though. He has been here long enough and there had always been at least one person ranting to him about their problems until they pass out drunk on the floor. He was quite used to it. Nodding his head occasionally, he only found himself relating to his words. A frown scrunching up on his forehead, he sets himself in a deep thought. Tapping his fingers lightly on the counter, he hums lowly before taking another gulp of his drink, trying to find ways to reply nicely. But he was relating all too well and his mind was intoxicated with the alcohol already, forcing him to not filter himself, causing him to seem more of an asshole than he already was.
『 — ♛ Guess what, we’re shitty people. It’s been that way for a long time.
tonight, he is scared – no, not that kind of scared where he flinches at the presence of wilting shadows swaying in the wind as he sees it through his peripheral view – this one is the kind of scared where he thinks he’s been feeding a beast inside his marrows and now the beast has grown too much too big too hungry that it eventually diffuses and there’s nothing that can stop it and he’s scared, scared, scared. is this why umma and appa refuse to impose his histories on him, because it’s apparently scribbled in blood that isn’t even his? he doesn’t bleed a lot. he doesn’t bleed for long. is that normal? is that even human? he doesn’t know doesn’t care wait maybe he cares but what good does caring bring when he’s heaving his lungs burning with the stench of copper staining the ground below him and his fists are wrapped in the aftermath of the bloodied minutes? no, no, no, no, no, no. nightmares, he can swallow even when they leave welts on the wall of his throat, but this? no, no, no, no, no, no; beasts are not supposed to live in a man who cannot even recall the country he grew up in, no childhood memories, no adolescent memories ( and he’s barely past his adolescent days ) – beasts are not supposed to be so easily devouring ravishing savoring. he thinks it’s all in the muscles – how he easily sketches; how he easily punches. and this is not what he wants to be – he thinks of how in his sleep he was tied to the metal crucifix and thinks thinks thinks of maybe this is why. a monster wrapped in flesh and skin. almost human. almost. he needs to be cleaning himself – clothes are black, thank the stars – instead of leaning against the decrepit wall of the alleyway – decrepit like this skeletal memory, yet enough to be destructive against three men trying to bully him out of his small stature. he doesn’t want to think if he’s killed them – no, no, no, no, no. stumbles across this bar not far from the alley and enters it soundless and carries the remnants of battlefield to wash them off in the sink. washes his face after the drying detaining dying oxblood leaves his fists. ruffles his hair a little, and he thinks he’s presentable enough. walks out to sit two seats away to a man, the other side was another man too drunk to lift his head off the countertop. and he hears him say words that strike him; bullets, projectiles that simply leaving shrapnel in his flesh. swallows as he shows his id card for a shot of vodka. “are you… talking to me?” he eventually asks, tone drenched in disbelief that soaks his countenance as well. shitty? more like monstrous.
he tastes the name in his own mouth, a little foreign but there’s some familiarity in them. “ vallen, huh? “ he looks away, rubbing his chin, jogging through his 200 yeas of filed memories inside his head. ah, yes, there it is–vallen, once a stranger, someone he thought would never see again after their encounter, yet here they are. he glances at the younger once more, a look of recognition in his eyes once more. “ ah, yes, I think remember. well then, I’ll take that as a compliment. “ he offers the other another smile, chuckling, “ I didn’t happen to say anything weird, did I? I tend to say less than important things when I’m drunk. and giggle a lot, apparently. “ which isn’t a lie. he tends to reveal secrets about magic, enchantments that could summon the darkest and most evil of things, but usually the person who hears it thinks he’s crazy and throws him out of the pub: one of the many reasons as to why he doesn’t drink much any more.
he learns about people through the colors and flavors that they left on his tongue, and this stranger ( acquaintance? ) can be specified as somewhat unique. many people are, distinctive like a spin of plate with too much condiments, almost spicy. jongin, he recalls, jongin hyung because apparently that’s how things go here, in this city said as his birthplace before his parents returned to montreal to carry on with their lives as that was where they came from and the rest was a blur everything was a story of a story of a story jumbled in his head and he’s a turning wheel in the machinery half-broken. he blinks, once and twice and thrice to take away his mind from irrelevant thoughts – how the filter in his mind is somewhat crushed to pieces and he’s nothing and everything at once when it comes to thoughts. “ah,” he clacks his tongue against the palate of his mouth. “you said something about herbs and how some… i think cauldrons… mentioned. mandrake? spells, and you giggled. a lot. that much is true,” and with it, kept: the synthesis of an expression that most would classify as ‘deadpanning’ – that’s such an odd word, translated or not.
Whether it be melodies that give you inspiration for your muse, or songs that get you into the writing mood—pick 20 songs (or more) you find give you the urge, the drive, or the creativity to write for your muse—then tag your favorite peeps to get an insight on their musical inspirational feels!
Tagged by: @goreravens Tagging: @archaistes @eunaessi @whitexrabbits @kmsoy @inchvate @malificvs @dualaria @seovlitaire @memoirsofthelost &&. anyone else who sees this !
ps. for me this is more like his playlist / soundtracks--
___ anything you synthesize - ambient – – – the american dollar ___ why so serious - the crystal method remix – – – hans zimmer, james newton howard ___ pandemic – – – tony anderson ___ radioactive – – – imagine dragons ___ cancelling the apocalypse – – – ramin djawadi ___ how did i get here – – – odesza ___ shimmer – – – tracey chattaway ___ all is violent, all is bright – – – god is an astronaut ___ all we need - instrumental – – – odesza ___ no way to go home – – – 3.16 ___ hold me down – – – halsey ___ bones exposed – – – of mice & men ___ throne – – – bring me the horizon ___ sleepwalking – – – bring me the horizon ___ fire – – – pvris ___ staying up – – – the neighbourhood ___ female robbery – – – the neighbourhood ___ afraid – – – the neighbourhood ___ the imitation game – – – alexandre desplat, london symphony orchestra ___ theme from schindler’s list - reprise – – – ithzak perlman, john williams
ircane:
❛ bunch of sloppy fucking pigs, wanting to play like fucking children. the’re messing with the wrong goddamn person. ❜
emotions, feelings, are somewhat contextual to him; and in this sense, according to this static manual that rests inside the perching string of his head is the smell of anger. an acquaintance colored in bruises, learned that there are many types of effects that an impact can leave ( wounds, lesions, welts, contusions, burns? ). this type he thinks is what is called bruises because he is uncertain because he has never been the victims of the discoloration himself every red every purple every blue they disappear within a casket of time and he thinks it makes him less human and he dislikes it yet who is he to fight the law of nature? can’t ask appa, umma, either. “ah… you should probably… fix them?” he is uncertain because he has never had to do anything to any bloodied gash.
malificvs:
a laughter bubbles from the back of his throat, his expression shifting to that of an amused one. he tilts his head, grinning; what an interesting person this one is. “ i’m a TOLERABLE drunk? whatever do you mean by that? ” he laughs again, leaning back and crossing his arms. it had been awhile since he has heard that sort of comment, the last he heard just over five years ago. truthfully, he is not sure whether to feel offended or laugh even louder. “ what you say is hurting my poor, fragile, heart. “ he places a hand across his chest, a mocked expression of pain morphing his features. he glances up, watching for a response, ” in addition to that, I do not recall ever drinking with you before? ”
and he remembers this person like these stained glass windows lining down a church’s corridor, fragmental to the point where the blur doesn’t feel too vague anymore. setting: bleak walls scrapped with the age of peeling paint as the indicator of how long the room had been; remembers how he approximated the age as that of above his own, which he believes is two decades. doesn’t blame this person ( named jongin? jongup, jongin, he thinks it’s the latter but it’s difficult to recall everything through the filtering haze that his head was in back when he was sitting next to this face in this bar ) for failing to resurrect an event taking place in where there was too much kerosene to burn their insides and they were flame flame flaming. but amusement is not contagious and he speaks in monotony wrapped in fisted memories. “mm, well. i’m vallen, if you recall that name, maybe. i know your name. you sat next to me. you talked; that’s what i mean by tolerable. some people are worse, you see.”
