#decathect

WORD OF THE DAY: 

decathect 

[dee-kuh-thekt]  verb

to withdraw one's feelings of attachment from (a person, idea, or object), as in anticipation of a future loss: He decathected from her in order to cope with her impending death.

𝐈𝐓’𝐒  𝐀𝐍  𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓  𝐎𝐍  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 ,   𝐀𝐒  𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇  𝐀𝐒  𝐈𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐄 .         Harsh   chemicals   attacking   sense   of   smell ,   features   contorting   into   one   wholly   of   OUTRIGHT   DISPLEASURE .   The   gaudy   colors   clashing   against   each   other ,   the   conglomerate   vomit   idea   of   a   child   wrought   into   something   MOCKING   THE   VERY   IDEA   OF   FASHIONABLE   CLOTHING .   Nothing   matches ,    &    paired   with   that   look   on   V’s   face ,   HE   KNOWS   WELL   ENOUGH   THAT   THIS   IS   DONE   ONLY   TO   ELICIT   REACTION   FROM   HIM ,   of   which   it   most   certainly   does .   He   takes   a   physical   step   back ,    BODY   ANGLING ,   distancing   himself   from   the   odious   garments .   

                        ❛    Is   this   your   idea   of   a   joke ?    ❜        𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬  𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟  𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧  𝐡𝐢𝐬  𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 ,  𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠   𝐘𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐨   𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬   𝐡𝐢𝐬  𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭  𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 .        This   is   no   laughing   matter   for   him   (   THE   SHOES   CALLING    BACK   TO   MEMORY   OF   NEON   BLUE   ) .   What   it   is   that   possessed   the   man   to   act   in   such   a   manner   is   beyond   him ,   but   it’s   enough   to   twist   features   INTO   ONE   OF  OUTRIGHT   DISRELISH .        ❛    Take   those   clothes ,   along   with   yourself ,    &   GET   OUT   OF   MY   SIGHT .    ❜

Caught within the throes of melancholy; the clime mild without a wind to blow, a starless blue-black omnipresent up above to watch over nightly wanderers and their phantom neighbors. Far from the roads, the commerce, the din of human life but ever nearer to human death---a place where loved ones dwelt in eternal repose, lost to the soil shroud. But she was not among them. The dead had other ways to speak, and upon him was the witching hour. But he’d not come for her, for the aimless dead or the ghouls. Escapism had, as of late, beckoned him hither and to the call he was without resistance. Nothing in his life but survival: what more was there to think about? Better a busy mind than an empty one---and, lo, he walked a lengthy journey on his own two legs to the site of human burial, seeking reprieve from grief only to surround himself with more. The whispering in his brain---he believed it in him, anyway---would at least accompany him along the way; be there when he arrived, be there when he returned to his dwelling in the morn, be there.

Stalwart since the start, he thought, and he’d known it not long.

Apart from the chirping of insect life, all was still and silent. So very dead, of course, save for he. His eyes may have failed him if not for the dark light of the clear, starless void---and a few scattered candles left lit that glowed their phantasmal orange glow. Someone stopped by previously, then. He spied the headstones, thought instantly of her while he’d known she wouldn’t be here. His eyes descended somberly onto one illumined by a candle. He hadn’t cared to read the words it bore, he simply moved in to place a hand upon it. Feel the cool rock, the surface smooth---he sought as much, but, damn it, he felt through feather-light touch a life long lost and mourned, memory of it nigh eroded and a spirit thus in grief. The throes of melancholy. Heart-gouging nonsense. 

how about 0.

@crimsonheartbreaker replied to your post

A scale of no.

@decathe-ct replied to your post

absolutely not.

          ‘  Y’all gonna be the first to FEED TO MY FUTURE PET.  ’ 

@anammxlech replied to your post

I sell dragon eggs. You know when and who to call-