heavy dirty soul.
there's an infestation in my mind's imagination jinsol & noah. house party. 4am.
on some level, jinsol knows that nothing in his life is genuine. he grew up surrounded by lies, a son to a master of illusion. everything was smoke and mirrors, a spin of the truth and erasure of anything that might be deemed bad. but the thing about terrible secrets is that they don’t go away. they sit, and they fester in whatever little box that you stuff them in. they grow, and then grow hungry. eventually, they might escape.
maybe that’s why whatever’s inside of him never went away. cast away in shame and piled over with lies on where he went, who he is. and now -- who he’s becoming. jinsol doesn’t have an answer, so he surrounds himself with more falsities instead. fake friends who are after his money and the infamy that’s attached to his name. the rumors he lets grow, because without them he’d be scared that everyone will abandon him once more. leave him alone with warring thoughts and blackouts he can’t explain. the boy sitting next to him now with a joint propped between his lips, and soft hair spilling into lidded eyes.
nothing is genuine, but jinsol is starved for affection, so he grabs at lies with greedy hands and wills himself to believe. it works -- it’s all he’s ever known. disappointment is expected, not feared.
reality is a strange concept to him. what is real? the blood caked under his fingernails when he wakes in the middle of his bedroom floor at three in the morning. the gashes that run down his arms that he can’t remember getting, scratches zigzagging across his shins like he’s been running through brambles. real. but he can’t remember. the truth is perpetually out of his grasp, always running. and jinsol is tired, ready to give into the mania.
“you’re not tired?” he murmurs to noah as he reaches out to pluck the joint free, takes a drag for himself as he rolls onto his side to stare at the other’s profile. “i think everyone’s asleep.” he tacks on in a whisper as the smoke escapes his mouth, words slurred near the edges from a cocktail of sleep deprivation mixed with vodka.
