@evokemind. | x.
What he witnesses is agony. Agony of others --- --- --- agony of the universes. He is audience to the agony that he solicits : vile, he is, like the dark things that whisper in the void-like reaches of the multiverse. The world reaches out to him because it must. Existence suffers, tortured by his very essence, & yet it continues to crawl to him : there is a languid path that everything take, & the destination is he, consumer of all things both holy & not. Every bit of energy born to this wretched reality will one day rot to him. He is the end of it all. The stellar constructs are wary of him, as they should be, for to them, he is naught but cruelty & malice, painted rose by the diluted blood of those he felled. They call him a monstrous creature, hollow-hearted & unbecoming. They are right, absolutely & completely, but they do not know of his love for them. ( MELANCHOLY, DARLING, YOU MUST KNOW HOW MUCH HE LOVES YOU! ) How the monster becomes docile! How he withdraws from violence to embrace adoration! He smiles, but he doesn’t show teeth! Oh, sweet Melancholy, how he turns from the darkness to your light!
His insides twist, gnawed by guilt & by love & by things a mortal mind could not & should not recognize. He looks at his companion like someone revering his god, like someone memorizing the life & detail of an obscure, but exquisite painting. ( Volatile boy, how the beautiful & sad seem to quell your anger! They are your savior & your tether. They make you more human that you’d ever wish to be. ) In his interstellar & foreign skin, he is subtle & orderly : these new eyes that he has are more like planetary rings, rather than black holes. Though they are brighter & better-beautiful, they radiate the same nonexistence that eats at their edges. He watches Melancholy with his brighter eyes, wide & softened, & soon, there is a smile at the ends of his lips, pulling outward into a subtlety. He, ever the charmer, adopts a reckless & complacent lip-curl. How brutally he is reminded that he loves! How brutally he is reminded that he should not. Still --- --- --- his smile lingers. Still --- --- --- it blossoms like the flowers of resilient weeds, spreading across the expanse of his visage. Do you see? Darling, do you see how much this tears him apart?
What he witnesses is agony. Agony of self, agony of his indecision. He is catalyst to the agony that he fosters : vile, he is, like the soft things that wish to crawl out from his voice & tell his love of their beauty, of their ethereal construction. The world reaches out to them because he wills it : in this grueling path to deconstruction, there is the simultaneous walk to misery & melancholy --- --- --- how he walks this path himself, condemning his own existence with the scripture that his own hand wrote. ( He cannot love Melancholy, but he loves them anyway. One day, he will wither away & so will his love for them. He will rest & recover in the vantablack darkness of The Void. When he is ready, The Void will have him rise, & then he will never love again. ) He knows this love has to end, someday, but he looks to this knowledge as though it does not exist, because all he wishes to see is the one he should not love.
Ah, but is it not foolish of him to lament these things? In these pondering moments, he finds it unwise to let his thoughts loiter & rot, so his smile begins again, outward curls of unfurling flowers, like a bouquet given on materialistic romances. He maintains his distance from the other, his head tilted like a neophyte lover, fabricated eyes twinkling with a mischief that smears above his inward brooding. ( He is this lost chaotic, ruination running in his veins & devastation singing in his heart : he is not romantic, but he is tragic & tragedy is beauty. ) There is a moment that he lets this simmer, this sliver of interaction between them that is both hollow & heavy. He is fatal --- --- --- but his smile is not. Not when it is meant for Melancholy, meant as an offering, an act of worship.
His smile is the crescent moon, capable & usable, soft & subtle amongst the darkness that he is proud to be. ( HE IS A SLIVER OF DECAYING LIGHT! ) There lies a hesitant moment before he leans slightly in towards the other, & a slender hand reaches outward. A gentle touch --- --- --- his fingertips against theirs. One hundred thousand words manifest in silence of this slight gesture, yet still, he adds to the quiet conversation with the low hum of his voice.
❛ Do you think it might be obnoxious that I still look like this? ❜
