Aliston from the vn/dating sim story my friend and I are writing called Saturniidae šāØ Some writing below > w > ā¬ļøš
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It was when your eyes met and his throat went dry that Aliston knew he was losing grip on the hill that was you.
He hadnāt even realized he had made it over the summit until he was already halfway down and losing footing. Frantically digging his heels and hands into dirt to keep grip, staring down the slope into a dark distance his eyes couldnāt parse.
He would laugh bitterly now at how light it once was.
Easy, superficial.
Aliston had thought how lucky he was to meet someone like you.
A new familiar face for breezy conversation. Short, predictable, pleasant, warm. You respected his privacy, his boundaries. He might even call you a friend. You were undeniably a wonderful person to pass the time with. And that was all he wanted. He was fine with that.
But as days went on, it just becameā¦difficult.
Every thought of his began to steep in you, every sigh a dedication. Every relived moment wrapping tighter and tighter around him, squeezing the air out of his lungs, pressing harder on his chest. Painfully. Addictively.
He became aware of how his throat would close when you crossed the street towards him, how you began to smile more when you were around him, your expressions more open and honest. Being able to see those walls you built around yourself slowly tumble away with every laughter he pulled from you. The prickling satisfaction it created in him was immense and all consuming. It imparted an intoxicating lightheadedness. A beautiful, frightening vertigo.
Aliston tried to ignore it, and chalk it up to something else. Allergies. A cold, maybe. If that was something he could even get anymore. Thatās what it had to be. Thatās what it needed to be. He would press it down deeper.
But one day, all that easiness of conversation, the limitless pull of laughter and charm that came to him so naturally, all of it seemed to vanish away when you crossed the road.
He had seen you do this simple action for what seemed like a hundred times.
But this time, this fateful time, every thought in his head evaporated the moment he saw your lips part to say his name.
Any idea of conversation falling out of reach.
He found himself floundering for them, but began overthinking everything.
What if you were bored by his usual questions? Was he repetitive? Were you just humoring him at this point? You couldnāt possibly want to be here, did you? But still, you came. What did that mean? What did that mean to you?
He desperately wanted to know more about you, ask you questions that may reveal other layers of you. But you were thoughtful, which made this difficult for him.
Because there was always the risk of you asking him things in return.
Prying loose unsharable things. Things you could never know.
And he couldnāt do that.
He probablyā¦could never do that.
Could never move forward with you.
Could neverā¦
be with you.
That painful throb would set in, knotting his stomach, stinging his chest. Terrible and deep.
But then Aliston would remember where he was.
With you.
Across the table.
Your face, in all its openness, beholding a small, lopsided smile.
A smile for him.
Aliston would become acutely aware of the silence, the temperature in the room, how close you were to him, the way you smelled, the heat from your arms, the colors of your fingernails that seemed to sit so close to his.
Panic would begin to weigh uncomfortably on his shoulders, and the reality of what he was, what he could do, everything began to close in on him all at once.
A thousand voices from a thousand directions, screaming. A spinning tunnel vision that seemed to desperately hold your face in its center, the only breath of safety in a vortex of shrapnel. He could feel his nails digging into his arms, harder and harder still, but thenā
But then it would all melt away when you smiled and called out his name.
āAliston.ā
Snapping back into focus again, abandoned indents in his skin, a pleasant tingling sensation blooming in his arms and pressing against his palms.
His entire body ached in a way he never knew it could, a way he never knew he wanted it to.
Life-Size Embroidered Sculptures That Imitate Everyday Domestic Scenes by Gao Rong
Beijing-based artist Gao Rong sews life-size replicas of everyday objects from Chinese urban and domestic infrastructure. The embroidered sculptures imitate the routine items our eyes often skip overāgraffiti-covered bus signs, broken pay phones, and stacks of dirty dishes. Although her works look commonplace, many directly reference scenes or time periods from her life. Level Ā½, Unit 8, Building 5, Hua Jiadi, North Village (2010) is Gaoās imitation of the entrance to a basement apartment she rented while a student in Beijing, and 2012 her installation, The Static Eternity, is a recreation of her grandparentās tiny rural home.
To create her sewn sculptures Gao first stitches the details of rust and other detritus onto fabric. She then wraps the material around sponges or wooden board, and stiffens the work with metal frames. Adding embroidery to her work is a way for Gao to preserve the traditional skills taught to her as a child, while taking them in a more contemporary direction. āMy mother and grandmother made beautiful embroidery,ā she explains. āIt was their hobby. Unfortunately this skill is no longer valued, so it is being lost.ā
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