#acrasia

https://www.twitch.tv/dogstomp  

Art Stream! Starting with about 30 minutes of Metro 2033, and then comics!

          IT IS TOO MUCH, to be naked to the world. To bear the weight of his Emotion. To bear the weight of atavistic remnants, and aching, and pining. Longing, crushing his ribs, crushing What Could Have Been, What Could Be, What Will Never Be. Senselessly, he thinks, he knows, he sighs. Too much to be naked to this world in which he does not belong. Archaic, defunct. Yearning for more. Yearning for her. Senselessly, he thinks. And he frowns. 

          “Yennefer. Yen,” he corrects. She is familiar in his mouth. Dangerously. Her eyes blaze violet, he notes. Dangerously. And his eyes are heavy with Longing, with Yearning. Dangerously. For she is not his. Was she ever? It’s pointless, he thinks. And Dangerous. For she will read his mind, undoubtedly. What is she doing here? What am I doing here? The coincidence to end all coincidences. She is as beautiful as ever. What am I doing here? 

             There are words he would like to voice, but cannot. For it is utterly senseless. For what is the Purpose? Words will not change a thing. His eyes shine in the dim light. Sadly. Like a Monster. Like a Viper. Like a Cat. Like a Mutated Beast. But familiar. And sad. 

Acrasia by The_Readers_Muse

           ‘   SOME SORT OF IDIOCY ...  now everything’s clear.   ’

           THE WHOLE CITY WOULD LIKE TO SWALLOW HIM WHOLE.

              There is discomfort here, he knows, like nowhere else. Like the whole damned place puts him on edge. Like he is all but Realized, in the most uncomfortable sense of the word. Aedd Gynvael. His hands shake, aftermath of his cursed Elixirs. Yennefer lulls him into a deep sleep. His eyes, Viper’s, Cat’s, Monster’s, reflect her own. Violet. Beautiful, and terrifying. They reflect, and that is all. 

               Because there is nothing inside of him. Absolutely nothing at all.

               When he sleeps, he seldom remembers his dreams. And when he does remember, he would very much like to do go back to not remembering. He dreams of Axe, of Sword, of Blood, of Inevitabilities, of Death and Destiny. They mean little to him. But they unsettle him all the same. He mumbles in his sleep, product of Elixir and Overactive Brain. Inaudibly. This time, he Dreams. It is a pretty dream. He has realized this from her, and he will not readily admit it. He can readily admit very little, he has come to realize. But that is neither here nor there. 

                  He dreams of a pretty house. And a garden. And a farm. And of Loving, where it can be called that without so much as saying those words, until the day turns to night, and then repeats itself. Where she tends to onions, and carrots, and even an Apple Tree. Where he tends to the sheep, and the horses, and he lets them know he cares for them, too. Where, after a long day of Tending, he unwinds in their Home. And he sits in silence there. And it is inevitably broken, suddenly, by black curls falling over his hung head, tickling his eyes and his nose. And he smiles. He smells her. Lilac and Gooseberry. None will ever compare. He smiles.

                  He awakes. Sourly. He would very much like to be away from this city. He would very much like to be in this Dream. But it is pointless to speculate, and pointless to Yearn for that which will never be. Thus, he says one thing about the brief comfort before returning to Here. With Finality.