Celestial Dynasty

She saw a translucent figure with movement that trailed starry fragments of expression. He watched her with a nostalgic gaze, slowly drawing her mind into focus. Everything was a deep shade of blue, with fine, pale lines which were almost invisibly holding together a heavenly setting. He stood there, in gentle rows of endless columns, barely there as if they were the unfinished sketch of what should be a civilisation. She was on the edge of this impossible monument, beyond her was only the universe. In that infinite reach beyond her feet, she felt the glow generated from lives that were still to be lived, from every emotion that projected itself across the astral ocean, it was warm and cold and full of fear. And every one of those whose vibrant feeling fuelled the energy into creating this wondrous place, she knew that they may never understand it’s power. For their souls gave life to those unhappily caught between death and reformation.

She had found the coast, where she walked for several weeks. Through salt water air and wind-swept wilderness, she raised up upon ancient cliffs of white and grey, she slept in caves of forgotten wonder. Every day, she watched the horizon turn from pale topaz to starlit sapphire. And she thought of all the lives lost, the bodies beneath the waves, the turmoil beyond. This was a place of peace, a gentle part of her world, in which she could not allow herself to indulge much longer.

When time fell apart, there was no escape from the past. Her personality relied on a vault of heavy veils, every word spoken in masquerade; a costume change for every brief encounter.

They stood beside one another in the meadow. The endless landscape was ablaze with a tidal beam from the nightsky, as the supernova astonished the darkness into radiance. As the ardent star contorted in the distance, they knew their place in the universe. And in the cosmic light, as if entering the gates of an ancient heaven, their lives were up for judgement.

I'm unbelievably impressed with your writing. Would you do me the honor of looking at my work?

She wrote poetry and music upon the corners of old letters, in-between the lines of old books, upon piles of endless paperwork. And as swiftly as she had begun, she moved them aside and forgot. She moved them aside, and allowed them to be thrown into the fire. She put down epic tales; lost worlds as unique as a fingerprint. Fragmented from reality, they were never to be imagined in the same way again.

You are the most talented original writer I have ever had the pleasure of reading on this app. If you were to ever release a book, I would be the first to buy it and the last to let it leave my bookshelf.

I am not here for you to embellish your dreams upon, I am not a flawless individual. I am not a pastoral figure within an Arcadian landscape, I am not here to inspire your inner voyeurism. I am here out of my own action, to be standing before you is a state of unrest for me. I am going against my faith and my historic depths to be here. Do not tell me that I am as helpless as you, or that I am here because I am free; that you are imprisoned. I struggle for my moments of freedom, I have to act as an individual to create them. You have your privilege, you have your wealth and honour, and the only thing to hold you back is a fragile relationship built on bureaucracy. The world will welcome you. Yet, you are stagnant in your misery. You are on the verge of escape, yet refuse to open the gate. Instead you project passive dreams upon me, you expect my kind words to fulfil your happiness. But you will never be happy, and those dreams will never be met. Not until you step out into the land you have inherited. I refuse to allow it. I refuse to focus on your life, knowing that my only role is to fuel intangible, romantic notions. You have to act. You need to act. You must act.

Although they would live eternally, an understanding of their existence silently plagued the immortal men. Whilst many refused to speak of it, as if they feared an answer to their celestial bodies, greater philosophers put together intricate devices. Eternal astronomical clocks, which whirred with countless hands and illustrations, were carefully pieced together over centuries; to read one would take considerable study, and once learnt would still take deep speculation. When time could not be measured by the life of a single man, it was hard to debate through philosophy or science. And so, the intangible movement of the universe could only be grasped theoretically within these gilded frames, rotating endlessly. The most famous examples of such stood in the midst of grand city squares, their faces moving in a constant motion, never ending over the unobservant bodies beneath. They remained almost entirely aesthetic in presence, with their painted stars and beasts and women and men – symbols in gold leaf, deep blue shades and crimson arrows. And to date, not even the finest of minds had begun to discover an absolute truth through such a machine or otherwise. And yet when he stood in the square of his own city, silent and lost in the crowds, he would often begin to stare upon the rotating face. Even when his mind was entranced within literature, searching for distraction in every corner, his concentration would drift back. His eyes peered towards the hands as if willing them to stop – as if urging those golden spheres to fall before his feet.

I never usually post anything on here that is beyond a couple of paragraphs because I worry nobody will read it (tl;dr) but it seems that the last quote I posted, which I thought was way too long (but didn’t want to stop going..) has been picked up by quite a few people. I had even posted the last paragraph alone because I thought it might be easier to read. So thank you for finding time to read through the full text, I really appreciate it! And I always check every reblog for responses in tags, etc.

Is this in a book form?

And ultimately, she did not want to return to the bitter halls of her people, without the knowledge that across the stars – he was there, waiting. And he would never forget her, far away as she was. He would always be a new constellation, in the bleak, dark skies of her decaying city.

She understood the pull between two worlds, the cosmic force that ripped her simultaneously to and from his distant life. And it was painful, but the decision to leap either way was endlessly complicated. The thoughts circled her mind, and she could not escape. To unbecome herself, after hundreds of years of study, of meditation, of spirituality in the raging winter of her home? It was impossible. It would be as if abandoning a tireless war, in which she was bound to the army of a righteous cause – even with the knowledge of it’s poisonous politics. She had to keep fighting. The distraction that she found in her love for him was only that; a distraction. It was a unknown element of warmth, but one that she could not help but cling to. He was alone, as was she. Both were part of a mass of bodies, civilisations full of insincere companionship. Amid all who they stood beside, they knew nobody as they knew one another. And she supposed that she could live with that emptiness, as she had known it for centuries. But the thought of leaving him to face this eternal echo without her, was unthinkable. She would not allow him to face oblivion alone, or to be drummed down by those around him, those who saw nothing of his soul. And ultimately, she did not want to return to the bitter halls of her people, without the knowledge that across the stars – he was there, waiting. And he would never forget her, far away as she was. He would always be a new constellation, in the bleak, dark skies of her decaying city.

Every inch of her fell away into the unseen dimensions of the world, and only her soul remained. The emotional gravity that kept her feet upon the ground would suddenly lift, in these moments she understood that the discomfort of her body came not from the physical trauma, or the eternal life it had been destined to wade through. Every measure of her pain came from an overwhelming process of thoughts, an endless collection of memorial scripture, each page with it's own value in weight, in placement, in sensation. But it didn't make the reality any easier. There was a clear understanding, that the corporeal nature of her existence would always be at mercy to the unpredictable chasms of mental trauma. These were the seemingly inescapable endgame to all paths she took, and had found their way evermore easily into her iconoclastic persona.

Every moment of their vague freedom was cherished with mundane tasks, simple pleasures that soothed time as it passed by in quiet chimes. She spent hours crushing petals into aromatic oils, candles, fragrances that filled the entire home with a warmth that she had always carried with her; it was a unique scent that was well-known only to those who had held her close, never before had it been able to spread in such serendipitous leisure. He stood most evenings in the midst of herbs and created endlessly abundant feasts; all brought together from their garden, and from the brisk and wild hunt they took each morning in the old forest. The calm was hours long, until they lay awake at night – and amidst drowsing words, their minds were left fearing that tomorrow this may fade. They were ignoring the true complexity of their existence, choosing rose petals and wilderness over the cold reality from which they attempted to escape.

A message well overdue. Not mine to but yours to humanity/spiritual kind. The beauty in which these words are tied, are true of experience. You can feel the fusion of your sincere and elegant spirit. I caught excerpts a few seasons ago but have not been long back on here. How does your progress? What's the next step? And what other magical things can you share with me? - you are a rare species to happen across and please tell me the gorgeous artist of your profile picture - majestic! James xo

For centuries, I have been the very same woman. And I have stood in the same position, with the same posture, the same expression; as the universe expands and contorts. I know that as a child I must have stood in the same way, upon much lighter feet. I gathered myself from those I knew, those I watched in silence. I remember bodies brushing past me, and I recall a sense of constant guilt. A constant need to apologise for myself. And so, I have never been nostalgic. Many imagine children to be free of burden, yet an undefined weight placed upon me in those years has never shifted. And I will never know whether it has any tangible roots. Or whether it was simply a contagion, a mental transfer from the anguish of my parents – whose faces I no longer remember.