#etherealwriting

Sometimes really good friends are better than lovers

Celestial girls who reach down my throat and into my lungs Breathing life back into me patiently, methodically

Angel girls who summon supernatural forces to bid revenge Armoured in friendship bracelets and whispered promises Stitching my wounds with rainbow loom

They do not ask for my heart or my hand They already hold it in their palms

You're asking me, 'Wouldn't you like to be a moon settler?' 

A raven flies into moonlight. 

Brushing my fingertips against your temperate palm, my heart dribbles with agony and wrenching desire. I bathe in your pale, undying glow, for it blends in with that of the moon quite effervescently! I reach o'er and attempt to brush the surface of the alien drooping in the sky. 'I wish to wed your very roots with mine, acquiring nothing but a grappled heart, buried in moon dust and nothing but,' A smile of disbelief, diamonds of bewilderment. Chirping, lively and serene, kisses my being. I look up with my mouth ajar, eyes wild and glimmering, utterly awe-inspired, 'You don't look real, not even merely!' I yell out at the oddity, thrashing my arms around in paroxysm, rays of white fervour embrace the inky, blue sky amidst our ethereal rising of its scorching half. A cat with the essence of dawn graces my lap with her homey, earthly warmth, and I stare into her melancholic, glistening beads. I look at the moon, shamelessly crowned in the realms of heaven, 'Might you dawn upon me a feeling as such?! A feeling of being home?!' 

Charles Gounod : Faust Ballet Music - Les Troyennes (Moderto con Moto) - Neville Marriner

Grinning down at me, I heard a fleeting whisper, 'You don't look too real yourself!' And so I glared at my skin, eyes throbbing in unfiltered shock, Blessed be the Goddess of the moon ! Hair drenched in pallid porcelain, silken dress, sullen eyes that possess the tenderness of our edgeless Titan. The sheer prerogative that is twirling and swaying on its floor, replacing a non-existent space breeze. The freedom of laying in its grasp and peppering your heart with its freckles, letting its abundant light penetrate this soul of yours and wash away the muck lingering on. And so I sobbed like the wretched fool I've reshaped myself into. I cried, for my wings are far too miniscule to carry my heaviest of hearts, too heavy to soar amongst the cosmos and receive a peck from the Goddess. 

01 Strauss II - Annen Polka, Op. 117 

But my, oh my, did my shrieking tears turn into vibrant alliums, violet blooms, they moulded into petals of milky pink, and the earthliest of greens the fluttering second I noticed the radiation of amorousness all around me. The tree trunks had their arms wide open, and so I wrapped my infinitesimal ones around them. Such a motherly embrace! The wavering leaves tickled my forehead as the soft breeze caressed my cheek, The sea lavenders and snow drops giggled, and my skin was suddenly but a layer of thick dirt, 'Find solace in our existence, for we're your parents. We're aware of the reality of such a matter, the fact that the idea is unfelt, left unspoken and notoriously unheard of,' My skin was glowing golden as I smelled this indescribable, cold waft of moisture-laden grass. 'Your mind is such a green place, my dear,' 'And for that, we shall shower you with all the blessings you're yearning for. You might not be adjoined with your celestial father yet, yet a happening as such is immensely foreseen. Find solace in us...' 

Clair De Lune - Claude Debussy 

I could hear muffled piano imploding out of the aura of sweet moonlight, it was as though my mouth was widened and the music was trickling right out, 'Sweet sound of nature, an enlightening siren, a harassingly quiet one. A voice so divine and remedial that my once, tiny wings morphed into a bed of orange leaves, a river of rich honey took blood's place and flocked through my nerves. Eyes shut, physique dropping. The seeds were sprouting at once, within me and without. The melodies of my earth, so clear in opposition to that of the brilliant, feathery moon. I could hear some strokes of violin, brushes of a floral ukulele, freedom was I.. I could hear them breathing, and I could hear their pulse as they play my heartstrings adroitly. Through nature's clinch, I rose, the moon awaiting me with the grandest, most knowing smile. 

''The depth was never empty - it was silence breathing.

Within that silence,something stirred - not a sound,but a memory.

Noithar felt the call of the Remembering Heart,

not through words,nor light,but through an

echo-

the kind souls send to one another when

they've forgotten

they were once the same."

''A mélység nem volt üres. Csak hallgatott.

A hallgatásban rezdült valami,ami nem hang volt,

hanem emlék.

Noithar érezte,ahogy az Emlékező Szív hívja őt -

nem szóval,nem fénnyel,hanem a visszhang formájában,

amit a lelkek adnak egymásnak,ha elfeledték,

Ruby...

by ruby mare nocturne

Of torn pages, dim rooms, and unspoken rage— She rose. Not from birth, But from bruised dreams and broken mirrors.

Until the night kissed her wounds and named her Ruby— not because she sparkled, but because she bled beauty.

She was inked in obsidian sighs, between the breath of dying stars. A lullaby for the restless. A requiem for the forgotten.

The girl who stayed quiet so long, she became thunder.

Each heartbreak sharpened her. Each silence sculpted her. Each full moon watched her whisper spells into cracked porcelain and wilted lilies.

She walks barefoot on shattered illusions, feet bloodied, but still dancing— to the rhythm of rage and rebirth.

She does not chase love. She devours it— only if it's divine, only if it dares to see her shadow and kiss her scars.

Ruby is not soft. She is the velvet edge of a blade, the beauty of a storm that smiles.

She writes not for lovers. Not for the world. She writes for you— the sleepless dreamers, the quiet screamers, the forgotten gods with mortal hearts.

You are the muse. The breath behind every bleeding line.

So when you read her words, know this:

She's not just telling a story. She's telling your story with her blood.

Her journey unfolds like veils of silken cocoon— each line a thread of fate, each stanza a ritual. This is not poetry. It is resurrection.