#astcrismos

❝ The query ‘why’ has always been the most complex out of other question marks. Perhaps that’s why children favoured it more than other disputes, starting from a young age when they happen to be looking out of window and out of thin air, the neon light strikes to urge them into a journey of a hundred questions starting with ‘why’. Why is the sky blue, why are my eyes brown, why is water called water, why is it bad to fart in front of people. It’s an undeniable truth. Humankind lacks the reasoning for everything, blanking out even when asked about the true rationality underneath a human behaviour and need. Baekhyun had always been a fan of the subject matter with a stack of books on psychology and sociology in the abandoned corner of his bedroom to prove. He’d also been a fan of the question himself, driving his parents into a state of quiet followed by a frustrated groan. 

(Author: You don’t deserve to love him, so do not begin this tragedy on your own accord. You are no prince, definitely no protagonist to a story and especially not this one. And you are certainly not the half-hero he needs.)

(Author: What he needs is a god damn savior, not you, his false Messiah.)

(Author: Broken boy to the left, broken boy to the right. Two brokens don’t make a whole. You should know this by now, broken boy.)

(Author: You’ve tried. The parts that you call a body come crashing together with another morsel they called a body too. You’re all trying to sate a hunger that never lulls. You’re both trying to fit to each other, like they write of puzzle pieces in the lovetales. You’re both lying that you fill up where each other is empty, trying to save at what was never either of yours to claim to begin with. You’ve tried. Do you ever tire?)

(Author: Aren’t you tired of the attempts to carve shapes into your lungs to look like names, when you haven’t even caught your breath from the last? Aren’t you tired of running from body to body, from mouth to mouth, from embrace to embrace, only to have your knees spent? Aren’t you tired of falling for the notion, of something as fickle as love, when you only love the wreckage that comes after?)

(Author: Admit it, broken boy. You can fix yourself, fully in the palm of your hands. But you love this, looking at your broken pieces, and letting them create the art you are. You love being broken, because you’ve never known whole.)

(Author: So why are you bothering to salvage at his remains? You think you can keep them there, swallow him down and think he’ll find some safety within in, maybe in the hollow of your throat. When will you tell him your arms are not the sanctuary he desires, and your kisses aren’t the haven he craves? When will you learn to love without chaos, so the writers will stop scribing of storms, and stop writing of destroyed cities while carving his name onto their collapsed buildings? When will you abide by the mercy of this pen, broken boy –)

(Written: He says he loves me.)

@astcrismos

“What the fuck Yejun,” he hisses at the other. He tries to keep his voice as low as he can, but it still gets him a few glares from the ladies on the table beside them. He doesn’t even bother looking back at them to apologize (again), instead glaring at the other’s work. “How are you doing that?” 

If Chanyeol were to compare his work with Yejun’s, the younger’s male would be the visual of a garden, while Chanyeol’s would be of the weed growing around it. The bouquet the writer began to work on had no actual theme, the colors clashing and looking harsh under the white lights of the room. Yejun’s, on the other hand, looked like it came straight out of a wedding magazine. 

DEATHLESS SENTENCE STARTERS

Wide eyes went from the few papers in his hands to the male who were now speaking to him, and the priest couldn’t help but let a quiet chuckle escape from his parted lips. It felt funny for him, the way Yejun spoke --- we, he said --- caused some type of amusement in the elder’s mind. After all, how could he himself be a devil when everything he did was in the name of God? 

No blood was shed by his hands, for those hands were God’s hands on Earth.

Much different from certain people whose names were not going to be mentioned, because even though they had never manifested themselves about it, there was a feeling deep into Hyeonju’s chest that denounced all of their sins. Yes, all of their sins.

❝ You’re saying this by yourself, ❞ he finally spoke, the smile didn’t leave his lips, not even for a mere second as he waited for the other to say anything else. But before it could even happen, he spoke again. ❝ I am no devil, Yejun. It’s the contrary and you know that. ❞

Future: Maybe there are days when the sea calls out to him lovingly. He wonders if he’ll come onto the shore to watch the sunrise, or even the sunset, with his mind only on the beauty of the flamed, burning horizon. Maybe there are days when his heartbeats don’t roar over the waves; maybe he can let the same waves come over his head, and he can drown in the ocean without the fear of it. 

Past: “Juhee! Juhee --” 

The ocean is cruel and she chokes him before he can call out her name a third time. He’s never been a swimmer,  but he knows to stay afloat -- but the storm above him is unforgiving, the skies too dark, and his eyes keep getting met with more water. He swallows the salt down his throat by force as he swims on.

An hour later, he washes back upon shore without a sister, with barely a breath in his lungs -- and with a fear of the ocean.

Present: There are sand grains between his toes, and he’s never liked the feeling. He remembers Juhee loved the ocean -- especially in the way the sand always stuck to you, clung onto your skin for days on. He walks along the beach rocks, his heart -- that cowardly engine -- starting to run faster with each step closer to the incoming waters. He never knows what walks along the shore means, but the oceans have always called out to him, as if asking for him to search. 

He approaches somewhere too far west, of where the sand gets too coarse and the scent of the sea becomes too much. The waters are crashing too far in land, and he immediately begins to fret, with thoughts of making the journey back home. Then he catches the glimmer of something beautiful in the water, and the sea calling out to him again.

jungkook hates public transportation. he’s never liked the people, or the way it moves, with bodies weaving into and out of existence as his eyes move too fast for his head to keep up. he’s never liked it much, so when yejun says he has to go back home on the train, jungkook’s rejection is right there on his tongue. yet he swallows it back, hands finding home in his pockets, and gives a smile that doesn’t hold the warmth it usually has. though he is glad, somewhat, that when he enters the subway in which to wait for the train, there’s little to no people. the platform is empty. and he realizes, with a sudden clarity that makes his head spin, it’s late at night. time seems to rush through his bones like river streams, leaving him soaked in regrets that fill his chest.

they’re waiting for the last train, and jungkook is sitting next to a quiet yejun. half an hour left, and he’s been listening to the sound of downpour rather than yejun’s voice. there’s a way he holds himself, with a sort of rigidness that makes him appear more tired than he actually is. he’s been staring at the yellow chalked line, waiting for that distant rumbling of a train to filter through between them-- but then he remembers there’s too much time left, spun and wasted in his watch. his hands are shaking as he holds them close to his chest, eyes finding some peace in his skateboard still clipped to his bag, that which stays stiffly by his feet.