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[sarcemia]

♡ + icarus

Foolish boy, you can’t have the things you want.

(But he wanted the world. He wanted everything.)

You stayed up crying in your room when your mother forbade you from setting foot near the rising sun. She forbade you from spending time basking in the glow. You cried and sobbed that it wasn’t fair, that you wanted to play outside like the rest of the kids. (At least, that’s what you said to yourself when she wasn’t around.)

(But the sun will burn him and drown him in the sea.)

You got that freedom when you stepped foot into adulthood. You embraced all the things you wanted. You chased after hopes and dreams, (you chased after the sun). But just like that, everything crashed down around you. You drowned in guilt and buried you at the bottom of it, weighing down on you with every move you made.

(But he made it out barely alive, burnt and broken.)

You were not meant to have the things that you want. You were not meant to understand. You were meant to drown in everything that you ever loved.

You were meant to look and never touch.

[sarcemia]

♡ + love.

Can you measure love?

People often say that you could measure love with a bouquet of flowers, or with an “I love you”. A kiss, a hug. A tender touch, a longing gaze. You could measure it with saying that it is infinite. Eternal. “Forever” and “always”. Could you measure love with distance, or was there no limit to the distance between two people in love? Could love last for mile after mile? Could it extend from one continent to another? Could you measure it with time, or did love withstand time? Year after year?

Maybe love was just a slow burning candle — over time, the wax would melt away and you would be left with nothing but the burnt wick. (Love, too, would burn and melt away.)

Can you see love?

Did you see love when you look upon a mother staring at her newborn baby? Did you see love when you see a father holding his newborn baby? Was love the sacrament of holy matrimony? Was it dying together, in the arms of your lover of fifty years?

Can you feel love?

Was it the touch of your lover’s hand in your hair? The touch of their hand along your back? Was it the stinging ache of nails dragging down it? The pain of teeth dug so deep that color flourished? Was it the sting of a palm meeting your face? The pull of your hair? The gentle caress that follows?

Do you hear love in hushed whispers? Sweet nothings? Cursing, shouting? Harsh words that you regret the moment they leave your torn lips?

Was love deprivation of all things you love in life? Isolation? Leaving behind your loved ones? Abandonment?

(Love is an empty feeling. It does not exist.)

[sarcemia]

WHAT IS YOUR ANGER TYPE ?

Numbed through pain

You seem to shut down in situations that would arouse anger. It seems you go into a state of minor shock and your mind struggles to deal with the current situation. You are the kind of person bullies would get bored of. You're like a concrete stone on the outside, but on the inside... You are hurting more than they think.

tagged by: @iceur, @adamonite, @zureo

[sarcemia]

heart + sunset

Sunrise over sunset, Jiwon always thought. Sunrise was always better, in his opinion. More beautiful. Saying good morning to the sun, rather than saying goodnight to it. He loved the way the sun would warm the Earth with its soft rays, gradually leaving everything with a soft glow. He liked to let the warmth set into his skin. Sunset always seemed sad. The cold feeling brought upon the Earth as the moon rose high in the sky.

He didn’t like the cold all that much.

But like everything else, things changed.

Jiwon found himself catching the sunset more often.

Each time, he remembered listening to someone talk about how much they hate the summer and the sun. At first, he hadn’t understood how they could, but then they spoke of how they prefer the moon and the night sky. The winter frost. How they were different, with Jiwon being deprived of the heat, and them being raised in it. They went on about watching the moon and about how much they liked stargazing outside of the city. (He wanted to stargaze with them too.)

Jiwon was the sunrise: bright and optimistic, the start to the morning sky. They were the sunset: cool and relaxing, the perfect end to a long day. Kissed by the sunset glow, bathed in the moonlight.

He found himself craving that sunset every night, wanting to watch how the world slowly turned off and went to sleep. How everything was calm and perfect, a feeling that only the sunset could bring to him.

He never liked the sunset much before, but now he began to like it more than sunrise.

[sarcemia]

♡ + bruises

He stood before the mirror in the bathroom, not a single trace of clothing covering him. His skin was adorned with several different colors. Hues of blues and reds and purples, all mixed together into an alluring darkness. His fingers traced along each one, starting from the ones he wore on his neck, the initial touch to each one sending a sting of pain through his nerves. They’re sore, they hurt, and they didn’t stop at his neck. They continued down his body, over his collarbone, down his chest, down his abdomen, down to his hips.

He could imagine his family’s comments—his mother’s comments.

(“My Jiwonie finally has a girlfriend! Who is she? Is she pretty? Is her family rich?”)

His mother’s concerns when it came to relationships always sounded so shallow to him, but he knew that she just wanted him to have a successful relationship (successful future without financial problems).

But Jiwon could also imagine her disgust if she knew it was not the cause of a woman’s lips. How would she react to know that the bruises scattered across his skin as it were an abstract paining, were the cause of a man’s lips? A man he craved and longed for.

It was funny, in a way, how normally his body would heal itself quick enough that bruises from anything else would not form. Yet these ones, these ones that were made with a purpose, with intent, they stayed.

He had to fight off the guilt that morning.

[sarcemia]

♡ + Hairstyles

Once a month he found himself at the steps of a hair salon — typically one near or in Hongdae. Sometimes he went to the same salon, but most of the time he went around to different ones, never finding one he really liked. The hairstylists always tended to be too quiet, never chatting about anything, just focusing on getting the job done. Even when Jiwon tried to talk, he was always meant with polite answers and nothing more. (Not that it was really a big deal in the first place, but it felt uncomfortable most of the time. How do people just sit and stay quiet for so long?)

His hair was always cut the same style, nonetheless. Trimmed short and never too long that it would look too unprofessional. He rarely wore his hair over his forehead, he always asked for it to be cut in such a way that styling it pushed back or in the ever so popular comma hair style would be easy for him to do on his own. It felt and looked most professional to him that way.

Very rarely had his hair ever been dyed another color. Jiwon thought black also looked the most professional, and so he kept it that way. From time to time he would branch out and dye it a natural brown — sometimes light, sometimes dark. But he always found himself going right back to the natural black he was born with. A preference, you could say. He thought he looked best that way as well.

[sarcemia]

♡ + children

He was nine years old and in second grade. He watched as a boy in his class threw rocks at a girl. His group of friends teased her, pointing and laughing at her, calling her ugly. At such a young age, she had the word ugly shoved into her head. Every single day of second grade. (All Jiwon could do was watch as he walked away because he had a strict schedule. His mother always punished him if he wasn’t home by a certain time. He felt guilty for not stopping them.)

It was a year later. He was ten years old and he was in the third grade. The teacher was talking about family. Each student had to talk about their mothers and fathers. It was nice and all, until it came to Jiwon’s turn. He didn’t know what to say. He spoke fondly of his mother, but — his mind was blank when it came to his father. He didn’t know the man his mother married. He wasn’t his father, and he knew it. The man could act like it all he wanted, yet he was everything except for a father figure. Jiwon remembered being teased about not having a ‘real dad’ by another kid in his class.

Age twelve and fifth grade. He remembered being shoved against the lockers by another kid. It was a blur, but he remembered the reason. He accidentally bumped into him, apologized profusely, just to be shoved.

Age thirteen. Sixth grade. Jiwon witnessed a boy calling some girl a slut because she kissed another boy. He didn’t know the story behind it, but for the rest of the year, it continued. They pulled on her bra and her hair. They ‘teased’ her constantly. The teachers did nothing. (They paid no mind to it. They said they were just playing around. A bunch of bullshit.

To this day, Jiwon still saw kids picking on each other and bullying one another. It brought back bitter memories every time.

(Why are kids so mean?)