@theartofmadeline
Sweet Seals For You, Always
★
Noah Kahan
#extradirty
No title available
Fai_Ryy
macklin celebrini has autism
Game Changer & Make Some Noise
Cosimo Galluzzi
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
roma★
No title available
Phantogram Three
todays bird
The Bowery Presents
occasionally subtle
art blog(derogatory)
TMBGareOK. The Official They Might Be Giants tumblr
untitled
seen from Bulgaria
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Vietnam
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Ecuador
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Dominican Republic
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Costa Rica
@skiesletter
sheriff
whirlwinds of brown sand, discipline footsteps marching on black asphalt, mornings full of restlessness. you are given a gun, a voice, a decision. there is a bitter aftertaste of sunny afternoons storming through people’s lives, bringing mourn order to the gleeful disorder. pull the trigger, but deep inside, your heart is urged to do what you’ve been taught not to do— the beauty in the chaos, the awe sprouted from magic.
dimitri alexandre blaiddyd - a salve for the broken
prompt ; five years after the fall of garreg mach, dimitri is in the ruins of the once-monastery. amidst the rubble, he seeks blood and the destruction of his enemies, only a shell of his former self — a shell built on blood and vengeance. you are the only one left who can save him.
word count ; 1k
the monastery is no longer what it used to be. once, the symbol of hope and peace, now, the ruins of a large building no more. dimitri, fatigued by his own suffering yet still driven by an unfounded desire for blood, sits against the wall of a monastery tower. around him are tens, if not hundreds, of dead bodies stained with fresh blood. he huffs for air, his voice a mixture of seething rage and burning pain. his spear, the only symbol left of his father, his people, is covered in so much blood he can no longer call himself a savior ( not that he has ever thought of himself as such ), and he, baggy-eyed and panting, is nothing like the angel-haired boy from five years ago.
the sound of footsteps snaps him out of his thoughts, his fist tightens around his spear, ready to take another life. his life is one that cycles, an endless repeat that he desperately searches an exit for. but that exit on comes at the end of a long, tiring road — a road of vengeance, a road full of blood, and a road of self-destruction.
his singular eye looks on to a face so familiar he can feel his heart skid to a stop, before it begins to pound faster than ever. his scars feel like they are burning all of a sudden, like the pain that comes at the end of adrenaline, but make it hundredfold worse. it would be a lie to say he seldom feels this way — every ghost makes his heart lurk, every ghost makes him wish to take so many lives he no longer cares about humanity.
he does not wish to breathe, but his breaths come out so shaky and unstably anyhow. another ghost, another ghost who has come to haunt his past and taunt him for all the sins he has committed.
he should be used to it by now — they come and go like this, hundreds of times everyday. he kills every single one of them, without so much hesitation he wonders if there is still any love left in his strangling heart. and yet, every time he sees another ghost, he cannot feel dread brush upon his muddied, blonde locks.
he leaps forward, thrusting his spear just beside your neck. it is a warning, not to kill, but to hear the story of another one he has failed.
“ again. again, you have come to haunt me. i have killed you too many times, and yet you always return, ” his deep voice growls — a voice you once found so beautiful and melodic, like the warming hum of a cello, but is now so guttural, so sorrowed, and so devastatingly yet beautifully broken. it is the rage of that who suffers, the rage of that who has hurt so much and continues to inflict hurt upon self.
you do not flinch at the cold metal pressed against your neck — you, perhaps opposite of him, have been steeled from war, immune from the fear that plagues his haunted mind. ( and he does not expect you to flinch, you have never once flinched as he killed you. instead, you have always smiled. and perhaps that is what makes him hurt even more, watching you so accepting of your own death, so accepting of the horrors he continues to commit. )
instead, you push away the blade and take slow, deliberate steps towards his ragged form, your gloved hands staining with the blood that engulfs the spear. he flinches at that — never once have you done anything but die at his hands. never once have you neared him. in the back of his mind he screams at himself to back away from you — he, so dirty and sinful, should not be so close to you. but he cannot move, frozen in shock and wariness. you approach him with such a soft gaze, but he can see the caution in your pursed lips, and the weariness that rests perpetually under your darkened eyes.
his singular eye widens with a jolt, extended arm drops to his side. he has cried too many tears to feel it prick against the edges of his dark-bagged eyes, and yet something within his heart feels shaken. he has already learned how to deal with ghosts, with the dead — he cannot chase them away, but he can kill them endlessly. and he has learned how to greet his foes, for blood now feels so natural against his scarred, battle-tanned skin. but never has he learned to greet his friends whom still cling on to their lives. he swallows, tasting rust at the back of his throat. again, is the ever-reminder of all that he has lost — not only the dead, but the alive.
you recognize the realization that sinks into his soul almost immediately. of course you do — you have known him since forever, and loved him for even longer. the wind overhead stops, its bellowing sound once rapping against the stone roof silences, creating a hush akin to the endless whispers of the dead. you wonder what it must be like to hear the voices of the dead, to be haunted by nightmares even in wake, and to have to kill them one by one in order to stay sane enough to walk. you can understand the pain of war and the horror of morphed faces and the lost ability to tell friend from foe. but never, will you be able to understand the extent of his suffering.
it is quiet now, so quiet you can hear his ragged breath and see the trembling of his jaw. he can see you better now, his blank eyes settling on the blood that peeks out of your ripped clothing and the bruises sprouting across your skin. he wonders what he has even fought for, if he cannot protect what he loves most.
( and he wonders, too, if you are here to save him from his suffering or throw him back into the endless loop, this time adding an even greater pain that he would willingly embrace. )
“ dimitri. oh, dimitri .. ”
your whisper feels like centipedes crawling below that layer of caked mud and blood on his skin. to be a monster like him is to constantly be met with fear or hatred, and it feels horrible to be loathed but at least he deserves it. but pity? pity is reserved for the lost souls still worth salvation, broken hearts yearning to be mended. pity is not meant for a thing like him, so dirty and tainted he is.
he should say something now; push you away and scare you back to the safety of the sidelines. it hurts to be away from you, but it would kill him if you were to get hurt. but his open mouth produces but a pained grunt, and the words that he tries to form leave like ghosts. you take a step closer and cup his face.
you don’t know if you want to laugh or cry at the way he looks, but you resign to doing neither. now nearer to him, all you can smell is the burnt scent of copper and mud. rainwater has set golden locks into a plaster of greased flaxen, browned and ropey, and your hand that cradles his cheek attempts to rub away a drop of dried blood, but it scratches off in flakes. it wouldn’t have done much anyway—it would take countless showers and endless scrubbing, a renewed palace that can hold its lord, and a kingdom at peace to bring him back to how he was those couple of years ago.
what happened to you? you have no right to question this. to bear the weight of a gilded crown that eyes still search for, to bear the weight of sacrificed lives and a war fought due to your very existence . . it is not a burden you can ever understand. war breaks people, you know, you spent a whole year at the monastery learning this. and now, to be hurled into the throes of war so suddenly, the very fact that he is alive is a miracle.
concern nips at your heart but you manage a smile—shaky and forever small as it is, the same one he found beautiful all those years ago—at least he’s alive.
at least we’re alive. we’ll figure it out—this is how we’ve always done it.
— no. 02 of @nosebleedclub's january prompts.
dimitri alexandre blaiddyd - a salve for the broken
prompt ; five years after the fall of garreg mach, dimitri is in the ruins of the once-monastery. amidst the rubble, he seeks blood and the destruction of his enemies, only a shell of his former self — a shell built on blood and vengeance. you are the only one left who can save him.
word count ; 1k
the monastery is no longer what it used to be. once, the symbol of hope and peace, now, the ruins of a large building no more. dimitri, fatigued by his own suffering yet still driven by an unfounded desire for blood, sits against the wall of a monastery tower. around him are tens, if not hundreds, of dead bodies stained with fresh blood. he huffs for air, his voice a mixture of seething rage and burning pain. his spear, the only symbol left of his father, his people, is covered in so much blood he can no longer call himself a savior ( not that he has ever thought of himself as such ), and he, baggy-eyed and panting, is nothing like the angel-haired boy from five years ago.
the sound of footsteps snaps him out of his thoughts, his fist tightens around his spear, ready to take another life. his life is one that cycles, an endless repeat that he desperately searches an exit for. but that exit on comes at the end of a long, tiring road — a road of vengeance, a road full of blood, and a road of self-destruction.
his singular eye looks on to a face so familiar he can feel his heart skid to a stop, before it begins to pound faster than ever. his scars feel like they are burning all of a sudden, like the pain that comes at the end of adrenaline, but make it hundredfold worse. it would be a lie to say he seldom feels this way — every ghost makes his heart lurk, every ghost makes him wish to take so many lives he no longer cares about humanity.
he does not wish to breathe, but his breaths come out so shaky and unstably anyhow. another ghost, another ghost who has come to haunt his past and taunt him for all the sins he has committed.
he should be used to it by now — they come and go like this, hundreds of times everyday. he kills every single one of them, without so much hesitation he wonders if there is still any love left in his strangling heart. and yet, every time he sees another ghost, he cannot feel dread brush upon his muddied, blonde locks.
he leaps forward, thrusting his spear just beside your neck. it is a warning, not to kill, but to hear the story of another one he has failed.
“ again. again, you have come to haunt me. i have killed you too many times, and yet you always return, ” his deep voice growls — a voice you once found so beautiful and melodic, like the warming hum of a cello, but is now so guttural, so sorrowed, and so devastatingly yet beautifully broken. it is the rage of that who suffers, the rage of that who has hurt so much and continues to inflict hurt upon self.
you do not flinch at the cold metal pressed against your neck — you, perhaps opposite of him, have been steeled from war, immune from the fear that plagues his haunted mind. ( and he does not expect you to flinch, you have never once flinched as he killed you. instead, you have always smiled. and perhaps that is what makes him hurt even more, watching you so accepting of your own death, so accepting of the horrors he continues to commit. )
instead, you push away the blade and take slow, deliberate steps towards his ragged form, your gloved hands staining with the blood that engulfs the spear. he flinches at that — never once have you done anything but die at his hands. never once have you neared him. in the back of his mind he screams at himself to back away from you — he, so dirty and sinful, should not be so close to you. but he cannot move, frozen in shock and wariness. you approach him with such a soft gaze, but he can see the caution in your pursed lips, and the weariness that rests perpetually under your darkened eyes.
his singular eye widens with a jolt, extended arm drops to his side. he has cried too many tears to feel it prick against the edges of his dark-bagged eyes, and yet something within his heart feels shaken. he has already learned how to deal with ghosts, with the dead — he cannot chase them away, but he can kill them endlessly. and he has learned how to greet his foes, for blood now feels so natural against his scarred, battle-tanned skin. but never has he learned to greet his friends whom still cling on to their lives. he swallows, tasting rust at the back of his throat. again, is the ever-reminder of all that he has lost — not only the dead, but the alive.
you recognize the realization that sinks into his soul almost immediately. of course you do — you have known him since forever, and loved him for even longer. the wind overhead stops, its bellowing sound once rapping against the stone roof silences, creating a hush akin to the endless whispers of the dead. you wonder what it must be like to hear the voices of the dead, to be haunted by nightmares even in wake, and to have to kill them one by one in order to stay sane enough to walk. you can understand the pain of war and the horror of morphed faces and the lost ability to tell friend from foe. but never, will you be able to understand the extent of his suffering.
it is quiet now, so quiet you can hear his ragged breath and see the trembling of his jaw. he can see you better now, his blank eyes settling on the blood that peeks out of your ripped clothing and the bruises sprouting across your skin. he wonders what he has even fought for, if he cannot protect what he loves most.
( and he wonders, too, if you are here to save him from his suffering or throw him back into the endless loop, this time adding an even greater pain that he would willingly embrace. )
“ dimitri. oh, dimitri .. ”
your whisper feels like centipedes crawling below that layer of caked mud and blood on his skin. to be a monster like him is to constantly be met with fear or hatred, and it feels horrible to be loathed but at least he deserves it. but pity? pity is reserved for the lost souls still worth salvation, broken hearts yearning to be mended. pity is not meant for a thing like him, so dirty and tainted he is.
he should say something now; push you away and scare you back to the safety of the sidelines. it hurts to be away from you, but it would kill him if you were to get hurt. but his open mouth produces but a pained grunt, and the words that he tries to form leave like ghosts. you take a step closer and cup his face.
you don’t know if you want to laugh or cry at the way he looks, but you resign to doing neither. now nearer to him, all you can smell is the burnt scent of copper and mud. rainwater has set golden locks into a plaster of greased flaxen, browned and ropey, and your hand that cradles his cheek attempts to rub away a drop of dried blood, but it scratches off in flakes. it wouldn’t have done much anyway—it would take countless showers and endless scrubbing, a renewed palace that can hold its lord, and a kingdom at peace to bring him back to how he was those couple of years ago.
what happened to you? you have no right to question this. to bear the weight of a gilded crown that eyes still search for, to bear the weight of sacrificed lives and a war fought due to your very existence . . it is not a burden you can ever understand. war breaks people, you know, you spent a whole year at the monastery learning this. and now, to be hurled into the throes of war so suddenly, the very fact that he is alive is a miracle.
concern nips at your heart but you manage a smile—shaky and forever small as it is, the same one he found beautiful all those years ago—at least he’s alive.
at least we’re alive. we’ll figure it out—this is how we’ve always done it.
tomioka giyuu x rengoku kyoujurou - five reasons .
prompt ; five things they like about each other.
word count ; 0.7k
giyuu .
01 ⠀ patient - giyuu is a bundle of mysteries, mysteries to himself even. & he is quiet, perpetually alone, and perceives himself as an unlikable person, but kyoujurou never forces words out of his mouth, never lets out a sigh of exasperation as he plays with words in his head. instead, he waits, with that radiant smile of his and bright blinking eyes.
02 ⠀ self-assured - you would probably never find someone as self-hating and insecure as giyuu, but seeing the way kyoujurou is just so confident, so optimistic, and so secure makes giyuu believe that maybe things will be alright. & while over-confidence may make him cringe, just the right amount of confidence makes him feel just a bit more secure in this world.
03 ⠀ optimistic - during the frequent times giyuu and kyoujurou share words, giyuu stands there wondering how someone could love the world so much -- this world overrun by evil and admist the throes of war -- but speaking to kyoujurou makes him see the beauty of the world, the meaning of his pitiful life. now when he sees little pink buds or the rainbow after april's rain, maybe he wonders if it's okay to just indulge in the small happinesses of life.
04 ⠀ his touch - specifically, the warmth of kyoujurou's fingers as it brushes past to the hearty pats on the back as he laughs; there is something so reassuring about that touch, a hand holding his, telling him that everything will be alright and that they'll be there for one another 'til the end of the world.
05 ⠀ his laughter - sometimes, giyuu wakes up on the wrong side of the bed and his fatigue adds more to his grumpiness. but always, it is washed away by that uncontrolled, endless laughter; a laughter that swallows away all the pain, a laughter that makes everything feel better, even if it's just for a while.
kyoujurou .
01 ⠀ loving - kyoujurou has heard a little too many times that giyuu was a silent, stoic, and uncaring person. but as they share idle chatter and thoughts during breaks, kyoujurou learns just how wrong they were. he sees the small lifts of lips as giyuu worries over new recruits, the concern in his eyes as he speaks about tanjiro, and the deep longing and mourning hidden in those deep ocean eyes.
02 ⠀ thoughtful - if kyoujurou was the warmth of summer, then giyuu was the gentle splashes of water on the beach or the gentle breeze that passes under the blazing sunshine. be it the deadpan yet amused fleeting words in the midst of kyoujurou's rambling, or the gentle way he calmed him down as he got over-excited, there was something about the way giyuu's words fell perfectly into place, every single time. even if it sometimes took awhile to formulate those words, even if they were said in a passing, even if they were rare.
03 ⠀ considerate - giyuu was never good with words, and kyoujurou is well aware. and where his words could not express the care he felt, his actions sure could. it was the small things that spoke the loudest; the way he always passed the good-tasting food to kyoujurou first, the way he made sure to speak louder in case the other didn't hear, or simply the way he was always there. waiting. making sure everything was going alright.
04 ⠀ the intensity of his emotions - there was something so magical about the way giyuu felt things so much stronger than everyone else. and while that did mean he felt sadness, anger, and loss so many times more than everyone else did, there was a sort of spark in that smile blossoming on his face, the small moments of relief, and the brimming love.
05 ⠀ his eyes - on the outside, giyuu's eyes are dull, lightless, and cold. but if you were to look hard enough, or if you just knew him well, you would be able to tell apart the emotions dancing through those eyes. the deep resentment unceasingly present, the fleeting moments of happiness, the anger, the sadness, the hurt, the love. plus, they are just mesmerizing -- blue like the ocean, blue like the skies, blue like the bluebirds flying above, blue like the forget-me-nots scattered around the gardens.
dimitri alexandre blaiddyd - a salve for the broken
prompt ; five years after the fall of garreg mach, dimitri is in the ruins of the once-monastery. amidst the rubble, he seeks blood and the destruction of his enemies, only a shell of his former self — a shell built on blood and vengeance. you are the only one left who can save him.
word count ; 1k
the monastery is no longer what it used to be. once, the symbol of hope and peace, now, the ruins of a large building no more. dimitri, fatigued by his own suffering yet still driven by an unfounded desire for blood, sits against the wall of a monastery tower. around him are tens, if not hundreds, of dead bodies stained with fresh blood. he huffs for air, his voice a mixture of seething rage and burning pain. his spear, the only symbol left of his father, his people, is covered in so much blood he can no longer call himself a savior ( not that he has ever thought of himself as such ), and he, baggy-eyed and panting, is nothing like the angel-haired boy from five years ago.
the sound of footsteps snaps him out of his thoughts, his fist tightens around his spear, ready to take another life. his life is one that cycles, an endless repeat that he desperately searches an exit for. but that exit on comes at the end of a long, tiring road — a road of vengeance, a road full of blood, and a road of self-destruction.
his singular eye looks on to a face so familiar he can feel his heart skid to a stop, before it begins to pound faster than ever. his scars feel like they are burning all of a sudden, like the pain that comes at the end of adrenaline, but make it hundredfold worse. it would be a lie to say he seldom feels this way — every ghost makes his heart lurk, every ghost makes him wish to take so many lives he no longer cares about humanity.
he does not wish to breathe, but his breaths come out so shaky and unstably anyhow. another ghost, another ghost who has come to haunt his past and taunt him for all the sins he has committed.
he should be used to it by now — they come and go like this, hundreds of times everyday. he kills every single one of them, without so much hesitation he wonders if there is still any love left in his strangling heart. and yet, every time he sees another ghost, he cannot feel dread brush upon his muddied, blonde locks.
he leaps forward, thrusting his spear just beside your neck. it is a warning, not to kill, but to hear the story of another one he has failed.
“ again. again, you have come to haunt me. i have killed you too many times, and yet you always return, ” his deep voice growls — a voice you once found so beautiful and melodic, like the warming hum of a cello, but is now so guttural, so sorrowed, and so devastatingly yet beautifully broken. it is the rage of that who suffers, the rage of that who has hurt so much and continues to inflict hurt upon self.
you do not flinch at the cold metal pressed against your neck — you, perhaps opposite of him, have been steeled from war, immune from the fear that plagues his haunted mind. ( and he does not expect you to flinch, you have never once flinched as he killed you. instead, you have always smiled. and perhaps that is what makes him hurt even more, watching you so accepting of your own death, so accepting of the horrors he continues to commit. )
instead, you push away the blade and take slow, deliberate steps towards his ragged form, your gloved hands staining with the blood that engulfs the spear. he flinches at that — never once have you done anything but die at his hands. never once have you neared him. in the back of his mind he screams at himself to back away from you — he, so dirty and sinful, should not be so close to you. but he cannot move, frozen in shock and wariness. you approach him with such a soft gaze, but he can see the caution in your pursed lips, and the weariness that rests perpetually under your darkened eyes.
his singular eye widens with a jolt, extended arm drops to his side. he has cried too many tears to feel it prick against the edges of his dark-bagged eyes, and yet something within his heart feels shaken. he has already learned how to deal with ghosts, with the dead — he cannot chase them away, but he can kill them endlessly. and he has learned how to greet his foes, for blood now feels so natural against his scarred, battle-tanned skin. but never has he learned to greet his friends whom still cling on to their lives. he swallows, tasting rust at the back of his throat. again, is the ever-reminder of all that he has lost — not only the dead, but the alive.
you recognize the realization that sinks into his soul almost immediately. of course you do — you have known him since forever, and loved him for even longer. the wind overhead stops, its bellowing sound once rapping against the stone roof silences, creating a hush akin to the endless whispers of the dead. you wonder what it must be like to hear the voices of the dead, to be haunted by nightmares even in wake, and to have to kill them one by one in order to stay sane enough to walk. you can understand the pain of war and the horror of morphed faces and the lost ability to tell friend from foe. but never, will you be able to understand the extent of his suffering.
it is quiet now, so quiet you can hear his ragged breath and see the trembling of his jaw. he can see you better now, his blank eyes settling on the blood that peeks out of your ripped clothing and the bruises sprouting across your skin. he wonders what he has even fought for, if he cannot protect what he loves most.
( and he wonders, too, if you are here to save him from his suffering or throw him back into the endless loop, this time adding an even greater pain that he would willingly embrace. )
“ dimitri. oh, dimitri .. ”
your whisper feels like centipedes crawling below that layer of caked mud and blood on his skin. to be a monster like him is to constantly be met with fear or hatred, and it feels horrible to be loathed but at least he deserves it. but pity? pity is reserved for the lost souls still worth salvation, broken hearts yearning to be mended. pity is not meant for a thing like him, so dirty and tainted he is.
he should say something now; push you away and scare you back to the safety of the sidelines. it hurts to be away from you, but it would kill him if you were to get hurt. but his open mouth produces but a pained grunt, and the words that he tries to form leave like ghosts. you take a step closer and cup his face.
you don’t know if you want to laugh or cry at the way he looks, but you resign to doing neither. now nearer to him, all you can smell is the burnt scent of copper and mud. rainwater has set golden locks into a plaster of greased flaxen, browned and ropey, and your hand that cradles his cheek attempts to rub away a drop of dried blood, but it scratches off in flakes. it wouldn’t have done much anyway—it would take countless showers and endless scrubbing, a renewed palace that can hold its lord, and a kingdom at peace to bring him back to how he was those couple of years ago.
what happened to you? you have no right to question this. to bear the weight of a gilded crown that eyes still search for, to bear the weight of sacrificed lives and a war fought due to your very existence . . it is not a burden you can ever understand. war breaks people, you know, you spent a whole year at the monastery learning this. and now, to be hurled into the throes of war so suddenly, the very fact that he is alive is a miracle.
concern nips at your heart but you manage a smile—shaky and forever small as it is, the same one he found beautiful all those years ago—at least he’s alive.
at least we’re alive. we’ll figure it out—this is how we’ve always done it.
Zoe Leonard “I want a president” 1992
"Where were You, God?", Arthur Meschian (translated by Tathev Simonyan)
do you see how the ampersand is two halves of a heart rearranged? not totally connected but still together.
so when i say you & i what i really mean is that half of our hearts are so intricately intertwined and tangled that nothing can rip us apart.
dimitri alexandre blaiddyd - a salve for the broken
prompt ; five years after the fall of garreg mach, dimitri is in the ruins of the once-monastery. amidst the rubble, he seeks blood and the destruction of his enemies, only a shell of his former self — a shell built on blood and vengeance. you are the only one left who can save him.
word count ; 1k
the monastery is no longer what it used to be. once, the symbol of hope and peace, now, the ruins of a large building no more. dimitri, fatigued by his own suffering yet still driven by an unfounded desire for blood, sits against the wall of a monastery tower. around him are tens, if not hundreds, of dead bodies stained with fresh blood. he huffs for air, his voice a mixture of seething rage and burning pain. his spear, the only symbol left of his father, his people, is covered in so much blood he can no longer call himself a savior ( not that he has ever thought of himself as such ), and he, baggy-eyed and panting, is nothing like the angel-haired boy from five years ago.
the sound of footsteps snaps him out of his thoughts, his fist tightens around his spear, ready to take another life. his life is one that cycles, an endless repeat that he desperately searches an exit for. but that exit on comes at the end of a long, tiring road — a road of vengeance, a road full of blood, and a road of self-destruction.
his singular eye looks on to a face so familiar he can feel his heart skid to a stop, before it begins to pound faster than ever. his scars feel like they are burning all of a sudden, like the pain that comes at the end of adrenaline, but make it hundredfold worse. it would be a lie to say he seldom feels this way — every ghost makes his heart lurk, every ghost makes him wish to take so many lives he no longer cares about humanity.
he does not wish to breathe, but his breaths come out so shaky and unstably anyhow. another ghost, another ghost who has come to haunt his past and taunt him for all the sins he has committed.
he should be used to it by now — they come and go like this, hundreds of times everyday. he kills every single one of them, without so much hesitation he wonders if there is still any love left in his strangling heart. and yet, every time he sees another ghost, he cannot feel dread brush upon his muddied, blonde locks.
he leaps forward, thrusting his spear just beside your neck. it is a warning, not to kill, but to hear the story of another one he has failed.
“ again. again, you have come to haunt me. i have killed you too many times, and yet you always return, ” his deep voice growls — a voice you once found so beautiful and melodic, like the warming hum of a cello, but is now so guttural, so sorrowed, and so devastatingly yet beautifully broken. it is the rage of that who suffers, the rage of that who has hurt so much and continues to inflict hurt upon self.
you do not flinch at the cold metal pressed against your neck — you, perhaps opposite of him, have been steeled from war, immune from the fear that plagues his haunted mind. ( and he does not expect you to flinch, you have never once flinched as he killed you. instead, you have always smiled. and perhaps that is what makes him hurt even more, watching you so accepting of your own death, so accepting of the horrors he continues to commit. )
instead, you push away the blade and take slow, deliberate steps towards his ragged form, your gloved hands staining with the blood that engulfs the spear. he flinches at that — never once have you done anything but die at his hands. never once have you neared him. in the back of his mind he screams at himself to back away from you — he, so dirty and sinful, should not be so close to you. but he cannot move, frozen in shock and wariness. you approach him with such a soft gaze, but he can see the caution in your pursed lips, and the weariness that rests perpetually under your darkened eyes.
his singular eye widens with a jolt, extended arm drops to his side. he has cried too many tears to feel it prick against the edges of his dark-bagged eyes, and yet something within his heart feels shaken. he has already learned how to deal with ghosts, with the dead — he cannot chase them away, but he can kill them endlessly. and he has learned how to greet his foes, for blood now feels so natural against his scarred, battle-tanned skin. but never has he learned to greet his friends whom still cling on to their lives. he swallows, tasting rust at the back of his throat. again, is the ever-reminder of all that he has lost — not only the dead, but the alive.
you recognize the realization that sinks into his soul almost immediately. of course you do — you have known him since forever, and loved him for even longer. the wind overhead stops, its bellowing sound once rapping against the stone roof silences, creating a hush akin to the endless whispers of the dead. you wonder what it must be like to hear the voices of the dead, to be haunted by nightmares even in wake, and to have to kill them one by one in order to stay sane enough to walk. you can understand the pain of war and the horror of morphed faces and the lost ability to tell friend from foe. but never, will you be able to understand the extent of his suffering.
it is quiet now, so quiet you can hear his ragged breath and see the trembling of his jaw. he can see you better now, his blank eyes settling on the blood that peeks out of your ripped clothing and the bruises sprouting across your skin. he wonders what he has even fought for, if he cannot protect what he loves most.
( and he wonders, too, if you are here to save him from his suffering or throw him back into the endless loop, this time adding an even greater pain that he would willingly embrace. )
Mosab Abu Toha, "Interlude", from his poetry collection Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear: Poems from Gaza, available for download here
— no. 14 of @nosebleedclub's january prompts.
— no. 13 of @nosebleedclub's january prompts.
sheriff
whirlwinds of brown sand, discipline footsteps marching on black asphalt, mornings full of restlessness. you are given a gun, a voice, a decision. there is a bitter aftertaste of sunny afternoons storming through people’s lives, bringing mourn order to the gleeful disorder. pull the trigger, but deep inside, your heart is urged to do what you’ve been taught not to do— the beauty in the chaos, the awe sprouted from magic.
— no. 04 of @nosebleedclub's january prompts.
— no. 02 of @nosebleedclub's january prompts.
