Okayyy so this is going to be sort of like a blog (is that what it's called?) I believe I am kind of weird you know? maybe it's the teenage hormones or the fact that I have been reading a really good coming of age manga....but my brain is riddled with thoughts. I honestly made a Tumblr account coz I thought I'll be like one of those cool people who post cool stuff I see on Pinterest. But then I posted something (I don't even remember) and it got zero likes lol. It was pretty depressing haha no...it seriously was. Even now somewhere deep down I believe or hope that I'll become famous from this post lol. But again maybe it's the really good coming of age manga I read thats making me try to be a bit vulnerable and like myself here. First of all are we even supposed to post such shit here on Tumblr or am I being like one of those idiotic people who post too much personal stuff online? Plz suggest some good blogging sites for me if it is.
Ok so coming back to the main point....i think stories are absolutely amazing, life changing even. It could be any platform...books, movies, manga etc...sometimes you just find a story which clicks with you and even before you know it your personality is being shaped by it. I studied in one of my psychology class that human behaviour is influenced by our experiences....so of course the stories we encounter become a part of our existence. I find it a bit sad that people tend to underestimate the power stories have over us. Just look at me...read a beautiful story at 3 am and the introvert me is typing this much for everyone to see online. Damn my digital footprint. But seriously though...for the people who say that having characters of different races, colours or even simple as nose shape, they don't realise how having this representation can be such an impactful thing. I tend to be quite insecure about my nose....its kind of flat in the front? But I was once saw Henry fricking Cavill in enola Holmes and saw he had a similar nose. Quite weird the thing that I thought made me ugly was something that the most handsome man possessed(not bragging here or am I?) Anyways now i honest to God do hope no one sees this post. Do anyone even use Tumblr anymore ? (no offense)
This felt exhilarating. Kind of like I placed my first step of being myself and not caring about others opinion? Anyways cheers future me! hope you read this and love yourself a bit more.
Scribe's Note: This isn't my best work. I tried to keep it fluffy but then I got distracted and the thought strayed into a more introspective, rushed story. For that I apologize.
Since I was little, I was able to see threads typing people together. My mom and dad loved each other with their red threads wrapped tightly around their pinkies. All of my friends walked around trailing similar threads leading to people near and far.
“Mommy, mommy!” I tied a sewing thread around my finger and tied the other to her thumb. “Now we have a string tied together!” I jumped around with a big smile.
She stared at the string confused. “Baby, how do you know about this?”
“Mommy,” I giggled, “You and Daddy have it!” I watched her smile fade into one in horror. “Mommy?”
She looked me straight in the eyes and her face morphed into something monstrous. “Never tell a soul about this. Do you understand?” She gripped the thread hard as parts of it wrinkled and split.
I nodded as I felt the tears fall. She cut the last of the thread and tossed it in the trash. Later I would find out my father passed away, my mother’s thin string faded to any empty promise hanging loosely on her finger.
So I forced myself to stop staring and wondering about where those strings would lead. Over time, they just became part of the background as I went along my day. When I got a little older I realized I had never seen where my thread was. My finger had always been vacant of the red string. There was a part of me that was relieved; I saw my mother turn into a shell of herself, I don’t want to know what I would become. But there was the more irrational side that made me long for someone I had never met or knew even existed. I forced myself to work hard to get further and make money so I can be self-sufficient.
Then I met you. You were so beautiful as the sun set behind you. So blinding I almost fell but you caught me. Held me up with another blinding smile, you asked me if I was okay. I could only blink to try and get a glimpse of you.
As the sun set behind the tall skyscrapers, I could finally see your face in the shadows. Even as nighttime set in, you were still so bright.
“Would you like to go out for dinner?” You asked, your eyes intrigued as you still had your arms around me.
“Sure.” I took a short glance at your pinky; there was a thin, faint red string curled tightly around, so tight your finger was turning blue. I checked my pinky and there was a near torn, withered red string leading to yours.
Even if I’m afraid of what’s to come for us, I know that at the very least it’s with my fated pair.
Scribe's Note: Sorry to interrupt my regularly scheduled program (love language series) with a totally random story. I promise tomorrow I'll post the last part but I had sudden inspiration while reading other stories that I just needed to write down. Also, I'm sorry for the messy narrator stuff, it might be tough to read.
CW: Implied Self-H*rm but not really (mild gore), I guess a sad story
I always believed myself to be gifted in creativity. With a flick of the wrist, a light strum of a guitar, a simple idea I could create masterpieces of art. My parents were overjoyed to have someone gifted in the arts; it was quite a rare gift to have. My family was my muse - I wanted to make my family proud and happy, there was nothing more I could ask for. Especially considering how expensive my instrument of the day or pastels or watercolors or canvases were, I had to make sure I was giving back everything.
Until…. Until one day, I met you. You crash-landed - literally - into my life then my art changed. You had come barreling down the way right into my new landscape piece, effectively destroying the canvas and smearing wet paint all over yourself. You laughed and apologized. Your smile - bright as the sun - your physique, sculpted by the gods themselves; everything about you was perfect. I had turned to nature as I felt the creativity sapped out of me with every stroke or every chord but you - you brought it all back. I asked you to model for me as an apology; nervously, you agreed and sat down near the water fountain. Like Aphrodite herself, you sat patiently as I pulled out new paint and paper and began to work. For hours I slaved and tossed poor sheets until I could get it right. I couldn’t. But it was getting dark now; you had to leave. You offered another time tomorrow at the same spot at the water fountain. I agreed then we parted ways.
Once home, I ran into my atelier to hang my pieces out to dry. I had created a total of 20 pieces of just you alone. My fingers itched to make more but your image had begun to fade, a wave receding back to the ocean as the moon rose high above the sky. Smacking my head, I pulled out more paper, canvases, anything and everything I could use to keep the image of you with me. I spent the next several hours creating 30 more portraits of you, each different from the last.
My mother pounded at my door, begging to be let in. She was worried that I hadn’t surfaced in hours. When I was younger, the gift would make me create intricate and beautiful pieces at the cost of me. I would work for days without any food, water or sleep because of the need to create something beautiful. I would drive myself mad when the exhaustion began to slow down my movements even though my mind was wide awake. On very ‘bad’ days, I would turn to using those betraying limbs to create more. I would wake up in a sterilized room, alone with gauze wrapping my entire body. Only then would my mind be at rest.
But you! There is no part of my body that could ever be close to the beauty that you hold. Half of the artworks focused on your eyes and your smile. I couldn’t remember how your face was shaped or how tall you were but your bright smile and innocent, doe eyes burned clearly. I didn’t have the right colors, I didn’t have the right medium, I didn’t have the right brushes. I worked like a mad man as I tried to finish one of many pieces I had started.
The knocking faded into a speeding heartbeat. My chest hurt the more I forgot and the more I pushed myself to remember. My body froze, the brush fell from my hand. The last memory of you faded into cinder. I had forgotten what you looked like. I blinked, staring at the wet works around me, none of them sparked anything in me. I had grown numb to it. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. None of them were right, all of them had a freckle in the wrong place, the color of your iris was off, the shine wasn’t as bright until… I looked at the piece in front of me. It was us, sitting together on the ledge of the water fountain. We were smiling and even though our faces were far and blurred compared to the rest of the scenery, it was distinctly us.
The atelier door opened with my mother screaming at me. She threatened to take my favorite paints away but she stopped and surveyed the room. Her eyes shifted to horror as all of your faces, eyes and smiles stared at her, emotionless. She took a step back before screaming for father. He came in and his eyes widened at your face.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked as I began to pick up the pieces to dry. “I’ve never met anyone like it. It’s perfect.”
They didn’t say anything but shared similar distrustful glances at each other before coming back to me.
“Yes, dear. It’s quite lovely.” My mother cleared her throat. “Why don’t you come down for dinner? I’ll go down and heat it up.” She tried not to run out of the studio but she quickly rushed out to get away. My father just gave me one wary look before following, probably to console my mother.
I continued to hang the pieces up to dry. My room was a mess, sighing, I began to clean up the used brushes and destroyed works to have a semblance of cleanliness. But I know art is never clean; it will only be a matter of time before it will look like a hurricane passed through.
That night I had fallen asleep staring at the last painting I made. I could hear the soft running water from the fountain as we giggled and teased each other. You would make some awful pun and I would pretend to not find it funny. Then we would make plans about dates and hangouts and maybe something more. You were so sweet and kind and I think I loved you.
“I wish I could be with you, Muse.” I mumbled to you. You only smiled and placed a soft kiss on my cheek.
“You’ll see me soon.”
...
When I woke up the next morning, there was a warm body next to me. It flashed in soft neutral tones as it turned to face me. It was You. But how did you get here? I tried not to wake up as I began to ingrain every detail into my mind. Your soft skin, your round cheeks, your plump lips, everything. Slowly, you opened your eyes.
With an easy smile, “Good Morning, spirit.”
I frown at the name but don’t mention anything.
“Good Morning, muse.” I reply to gauge your reaction. You only smile, like yesterday, your eyes glow, like yesterday, and I know I’ve made the right choice. “Have you come to visit me, muse?”
You nod and move closer into a hug. You take a deep breath by my neck, I feel goosebumps rise. You hum, “Of course.” Your voice is soft and airy even though you’ve just woken up. Your hair is neat and you smell so sweet. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Never!” I said way too quickly. You laugh and just hold me close. I could hear my heartbeat speed up a little. “I promised to see you at the fountain, will you be there?”
You nod into my neck, never letting go. “We can go together.” You finally pull away and glance at me nervously.
“Sure.”
I got dressed as you watched. I tried not to blush, no one has ever watched me so intensely. I offered you a shirt and sweatpants which you readily took. You teased a little more skin but I turned away to offer you some privacy. Still laughing, you put the clothes on and held my hand. Your hands were so cold, I apologized for the cool room, it helps the paint dry, I explained. You just nodded in understanding.
We walked downstairs; my parents were already in the living room with coffee and watching the news. My mother looked up at us first, her jaw dropped but she fixed it and shoved my father’s shoulder. He looked up and flinched at us. You only hid behind me, shaking. Your body was getting colder. I walked past them, ignoring them as I offered you some coffee and some toast. We would need to leave soon anyway.
“What was that?” My mother whispered to my father. He just shook his head as he took a glance at the trail following us.
He looked back at my mother, “I don’t know dear, he must be getting stronger.”
I kept my hand holding yours tightly. I couldn’t understand them; all my life they had only been supportive. I had done everything with this gift to make them happy yet the one time I create something different, they show their true colors. You wrap your arm around me in a side hug.
“We should get going soon.” she offered quietly. “We should get ready.”
Shaking my head out of anger, I let her lead us back into my atelier. I grabbed some new sketch pads and charcoals and my digital camera. You toured around the room walking around like you were in an art gallery, careful not to disturb the paintings and sketches.
“Is this me?” You pointed to the one with us and the water fountain. I walked up to you. “It’s very beautiful.”
“You are beautiful.” There was a faint trail of blueish, black liquid following us. “Are you still cold? I can get you a jacket.”
“No, spirit, I’m okay. We’ll be outside soon.”
We headed back down to the front door. My parents made no attempts to even acknowledge us. My father was on the phone with someone, his eyebrows in a fixed scrunch as my mother’s hands shook.
We left without even saying goodbye. The walk to the park was quiet. We enjoyed the scenery and small talk about my art. Now that I think about it, you never brought up anything about yourself. When we arrived at the park, the water fountain was free of anyone. The paint from yesterday had left small streaks in the ledge but it had dried. We sat down and waited.
“Oh, spirit, here she comes.” You whisper to me as you keep your hand in mine. Another version of you walks down the walkway to the fountain. Your eyes widen in horror as you stare at the you holding my hand.
“Hello.”
“I didn’t think you would come.” You replied, surprised and frightened. “No one’s ever remembered before.”
“We promised yesterday, didn’t we?” I asked you and the you next to me. “Can I ask your name?”
“Mnene. I also go by Neen.” You replied, still eying your double. “Are you gifted?”
“Yes. Mnene is a beautiful name.”
You blushed, muse only smiled in response.
“The you next to me is muse.” I introduced your double. muse waved at you but you didn’t wave back. “Is everything okay? You don’t look very well.”
You shook your head. “I don’t think we should do this. You’re gifted. We weren’t supposed to meet.”
“What do you mean?”
Muse replies instead, muse’s eyes flickered through a plethora of colors before going back to normal. “Mnene’s gifted too.”
“That’s great!”
“No, not great! You were supposed to forget me. I come here everyday and never once have you noticed me. We weren’t supposed to meet.”
I glanced at muse and Mneme. Muse began to cry quietly. Mneme paced back and forth frustrated.
“Mnene, what’s your gift?” I asked anxiously. Muse leaned against me, crying soft sobs.
“Spirit, I love you.” muse cried.
“But you can’t. Look at what’s happened?!” You shouted at us. Drips of blue spilled from muse. “My curse,” you hissed. “Is to forget. You weren’t supposed to remember me. Muse sobbed louder. “If I had known you were gifted, I would have left you alone.”
Confused, muse held my hand. “But we love you. We have for a very long time.”
“Stop it! Stop it! You don’t get it! You can’t love them, muse!” Mneme shouted at muse. Muse only held onto me tighter. “You created this version of me because of your stupid gift!”
“Spirit’s gift isn’t stupid!” muse defended angrily. Muse pulled away from me and stalked up to Mnene. Muse glared at her before muttering something and placing muse’s hands to your chest and forehead. You cried out in pain as you both crumbled to the ground. Muse’s form continued to shift through different colors, outlines, strokes, filters before landing back to a realistic style. Mnene laid still on the ground, your face was stained with a blue handprint.
Muse walked back to me and sat down beside me.
“What did you do, muse?”
“Oh, spirit, I read through her memories. We’ve loved you for a long time. We thought you were just a painter so we decided to approach you.” muse babbled excitedly. Muse leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“We didn’t know you were gifted in art.” Mnene finished, you pulled yourself up to a sitting position before getting up to walk over to us. “You’re quite strong too. You were able to create a reminder of me.” you flicked the double. “You even have my gift but you help remember not forget.” your voice shrunk in sadness.
I just watched the two interact. Muse’s tears were gone but your eyes were glassy. Mnene wasn’t as mortified but you didn’t dare get too close.
“Can I paint you both?” I interrupted. “As a memento of today.”
“Sure.” muse replied as she pulled Mneme closer. The two sat together with the fountain as their background. I moved several feet away and set up my sketch pads and easel. I got to work as the two conversed with each other. Hours ticked by, the park began to fill with children and wanderers as I focused on the sketches. At one point, Mnene had gone off to get some food and coffee; muse stayed still and posed. When you returned you two quickly ate and passed me some before shifting back into your poses. I had almost filled the entire book by the time the sun had begun to set. Muse helped pack up my items as you watched the sunset.
“Here,” I pulled out one of the finished sketches and handed it to Mnene. Muse stayed by my side. You smiled at the gift.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry about earlier. But you need to forget about me.”
“Neen, I can’t. You’re my muse. All I can do is think about you.” muse blushed and held my hand again. “I think I love you too.”
Mnene’s face burned bright red. “But we can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I love you.” muse replied instead. Muse kissed the corner of my mouth. “We love you, I know that.”
“By tomorrow you won’t remember me but you can keep me as your muse.” Mnene was guilty. “I wish I could stay but I can’t.”
Muse snuggled up close to my side, “you love me too, right, spirit?”
“Of course I love you, you’re my muse.” I tell muse seriously. I didn’t want to give either of them up.
Mnene smiled at us, “Don’t worry, as long as muse is here. I’ll remember us. Muse is our reminder of each other.” Mnene looked at me before kissing me on the lips, I responded back but you pulled back satisfied. “Yes, I’ll remember.” muse’s grip tightened and gave Mnene a stink eye. You laughed, “Keep spirit safe, okay? Only we can do that.” You pat your double in the head like a child. You walk off back up the hill and disappear into the city.
Muse and I walk home. The memories of you slowly fade, only muse can keep me company. We enter my home; my parents pretend that everything is okay. The trail of blue and black still follows us, it stains every surface muse touches but I pretend I don’t see it. I don’t introduce muse to my parents but I sit muse down beside me at the dinner table as we eat dinner. No one says a word; I try to keep the last of you with me but I can’t remember what your lips tasted like or the last words you said or why you were crying as you left. Muse holds my hand to keep me steady.
“I love you, spirit.” Muse whispers to me at the dinner table. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Of course you love me. You are my muse.
...
When we go to sleep that night, I can’t remember your name. Muse holds me tight almost like muse is afraid that I will forget you too. I just hold on just as tight, maybe I’m afraid too.
---
What does longing look like?
Longing looks like a blue trail that leads to you. But no matter how many times I try to clean it or try to follow it, I can never find you. Muse holds my hand; some nights I wake up from a dream where even muse is gone - burned away like an old film. Who knew longing could make you so fragile?
Longing looks like scanning every place you go to find a familiar face even when it’s right in front of you, you can’t seem to find it. Muse follows me everywhere; I love you, I love you, I love you. Muse whispers the confession every night but you have never called me by my name. How can you love your creator the same way I love you?
Longing looks like hope. Muse loves me like I love muse. I cannot live without my muse even on the days where you drip darker stains or have no energy to even whisper I love you. So I shout from the rooftops, I love you, I love you, I love you.
Muse will never be you. You are never you even in the sketches or flashes of memories of that day, just the three of us. How can I miss you when I can’t even remember you? But muse will try to fill your forgotten shoes and your faded smile and your dimmed eyes.
the thing about being in love is i always devalue my worth and significance in my partners life. ive gone through my entire life never being the favorite friend, never being chosen first, being excluded from my friends birthday trips and outings and having to hear about it the next week, never being the one who has That Friend. so being in love and in a relationship is hard for me as it picks up on years of insecurity and conditioning. its why i want people to like me. it's why i cling so hard to those v few people who treat me with the respect and attention i am deserving of. the flip side is that when those people let me down (because we're all fallible humans) it hurts that much more because it presses into that wound that just won't heal. i hate that those years with various types of heartbreak have conditioned me to be the way that i am and it is far more difficult unlearning that behavior and conditioning. it is the one prayer that hasn't been answered, and even it has it has always been taken away shortly after. i think the desire to be wanted clouds the rational side of my brain.
I’m doubtful it’s just me who sometimes feels like, I just, don;t have feelings of my own? If I just sit there quietly, no original thought. Like I feed myself emotion through media, that’s why I always have to be into something, whether it be new or I go back to something, I always have to be, consuming. This is probably something normal that everyone does and I’m throwing out of proportion but, like IDK I’m just sort of an empty container most of the time.
I’ve described myself as a ghost and find that it’s pretty accurate
