#hymnhums

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here take this old abandoned WIP so my last few posts before i sleep arent of me being a sad soppy creature

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so guess wjo just fucking exlerienced what amounts to a lore stream in real time

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hello. thoughts won't leave me alone this day and it's probably due to how cold it is outside. i got a bit curious, so, what do you think about the cold in relation to c!wilbur?

sincerely, 🐁

he is intimate to it, like the relation the cold has to an abandoned house? that's not quite right, i'll come back to that someday

it's a bit like the dread nipping at his heels. have you ever seen him with less than two to three layers of cloth? He's a cold man, I'd imagine his hands are the type that's always clammy and that's what the gloves are for. The uniform staved it off fine at first, the coat's a thick wool and the undershirt's a nice layer of cotton. The cloak-coat-shirt-beanie combo for Pogtopia was fine for the cave's muggy chill. Uncomfortable as hell, i'd imagine, but whatever keeps the cold away. Whatever keeps the dread from eating him alive.

Dying was cold as hell, so to speak.

(Did you know that Dante Alighieri says the layer of hell reserved for treachery is the coldest? Traitors to friends, families, and countries are all trapped in ice.)

Dying was falling into the ocean and sinking from the weight of the sword on his chest. Losing blood made him even colder. Dying was freezing to death despite cPhil, a bastion of warmth—trembling, teeth grit, like he is the one that's cold—holding him closer than he'd ever been held before. Dying is slowly losing the dear warmth wrapped around him. Dying is giving into the cold because it was his joy in unrelenting pain.

The subway isn't exactly cold—it's cold like the idea of being trapped in a fridge in a dream. You acknowledge the low temperature, but you don't feel it on your skin. You acknowledge the dread, the fear, the trembling air as the train rushes in for its next flood of colder shades, but you're out of it enough that all you can focus on is the bite of guitar strings on your skin or how smooth the laminated deck of cards is in your hands. You acknowledge it in every tomorrow creeping in its petty pace.

His revival was the first time that he was warm again. Shirt-sweater-coat, you'd think he's scared of the cold from the ten miles of cloth he's hiding under.

The sunrise was warm. The way everyone treats him thereafter?

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mm. how much was Ghostbur's existence a metaphor of how loved are the recently-deceased? Something about being utterly unloved in life but then being remembered and treated so fondly post-mortem.

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no because see if we're talking c!tntduo, especially c!wil,

for me its always "almost" with these freaks. almost acting on it, almost closer than they should be, almost, almost, just enough to make c!wil feel alive and more. arm's length. unhealthy distance or lack thereof. get the blood pumping and yank himself away at the last moment. leave them both wanting like some fucked up starved kenneled animal, like stretching a rubber band, like hunger-thirst and the omnipresent want. you get me? the bassline, the base note of this story is wanting-needing-wanting. and

let's look at who's on the table today. just one half, sorry, c!Wilbur. i sanctify and canonize him now as the patron saint of almost-there. one must imagine Tantalus happy. hold onto that sentence for me while we go through this.

his hand slams the button and he almost leaves a mark; his poignant point was additionally steamrolled after this fact and no one even bothered to give him a proper burial, a proper memorial, because who mourns a fucking costume, a typecast homicidal maniac?

he almost won. he almost got it. he was almost happy. they were almost free. he almost proved a point to big Q. he was almost seen. he was almost understood. he almost made up for his wrongs kind of maybe not quite probably not, but he almost, he almost, he almost,

he almost forgave himself?

(kind of maybe not quite probably not.)

he was almost loved he was almost seen as human it almost wrapped up perfectly it almost had a cherry on top but, again, the thing about desire is it's stronger when it's not totally satisfied. c!q holds him with a desperation and he digs from q's gaze only an understanding of himself. this is not a two way radio.

the cherry on top is that this is his penance now, his stupid little ending no one likes. for what? for failure? for being the sly motherfucker he is? for being too stubborn and too arrogant to take up quackity's offer and, by extent, always always keeping him at arms length always leaving them both oh so fucking wanting?

he's now in the middle of bum fucking nowhere with no one who loves him with no one who knows him with none to show for how he clawed through the thirteen years of limbo except some scars and claustrophobia and a longing loneliness haunting him. there are no winners here, no trophies no grand ending. he ran off from his problems, as always.

congratulations, mr. president, you are now some unknown gas station clerk. another costume to wear, another character to play, forbidden from exiting stage left and being, what, himself? as if, honestly.

there is a want there, if you squint. does quackity want him to open up so he could close the distance, say what is always stuck in his throat, or taxidermy him like a trophy?

is this love, or fascination? is this affection, or obsession?

i think even under the gaze of someone that completely matches his freak and considers him not untouchably demonic but simply unpredictable i.e. c!quackity you could never find what he is. if you keep taking off his costumes there would just be more. if you keep taking off the mask his face would contort to more. if you're something so used to being forgotten you wouldn't even bother being yourself because who would even remember that? you keep peeling off his mask, facade after facade, and at some point you'd just be digging at dirt. you can't solve this puzzle, only pick it apart and ruin it

of course he can't be honest and open up, there's nothing in there. it's all a play, an actor, a lesson in dramaturgy. he'll open up when he's cold and dead on the operating table.

i am looking at c!quackity elbow-deep in the actor-metaphors on the operating table and i am asking: was it worth it? did you get what you seek, what you *wanted* from him? is this your idea of being closer than arms length? will you keep this as a trophy, too, that you have finally understood the misunderstood?

remember the bassline: want. need/want.

is the stage too big for c!wil or is he too ambitious. is the world too wide and his flames too dim? did he waste his shot, one piece of lead against leviathans? is he so lost in his own layers and layers of costumes he couldnt ever find himself again even if he begged to? i would ask "why, despite everything?/why, when everything was done?/why, when you tried your best?" but then he'd be asking the same question with a pinch more desperation and buddy neither of us has the answer here

there it is again, then, a stalemate of the omnipresent want.

the want to get-what-you-want (the hands grasping at the retreating water and reeling fruits / the hands grasping at burning flags and broken swords / the hands grasping at poker chips and glossy cards)

the want to understand (i push my thumbs into this caricature of actors and only façades split)

the want to be understood (c!quackity looked at him like he was human, through it all, and under q's gaze he was alive)

one must imagine Tantalus happy.

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THIS TOO IS C!TNTDUO, TRUST

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my fucking tablet pen died doodling cwilbur. it's going straight to Valhalla

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can i say something. taps mic. c!tntduo. is this thing on,.Hello