“reblog if you want anons in your ask”

─── ¨ ☾ MEME

salut d’amour.  a somber dissonance of unspoken thoughts. soojung looked so calm and peaceful that morning   (  after a night of endless conversations  )  her beloved violin tucked under her chin  as she plays by the window  (  by this time the melody is engraved in his mind  ). the hushed whispers of the early breeze are gentle against her hair, pale skin glittering under the warmth of the morning sun  -  yixing is thankful, for the world returns her kindness in its own way.

it has never been the case for him.  he sees them coming  by the corner of his eyes  (  they are always coming for him  ),  hiding beneath the structure of time and space.  the abyss dominates the ever-growing cosmic plane, whirlwinds of crushing gravity ripping the cosmos and leaving fissures of infinite probabilities.  

what if the void tears them apart?   what if he never makes it to the end of his promises?     

(  an unfinished story,  like the rest of them,  left hanging by the author in the middle of action so that the reader will be left in a state of perpetual longing,  begging for the next word until he feeds his own mind with delusional endings.

is he the story,  the reader,  or the author?   incomplete,  desperate or apathetic?   )

yixing doesn’t know.  maybe he is all.  maybe he is none.

panic starts creeping between flesh and bones. lungs devoid of air,  a trembling ribcage,  a throat full of sawdust. hopelessness is the moment when you realize you cannot change your miserable irrelevance and insignificance to the grand scheme of things. each day that passes, he becomes less and less of himself.

but she is here, in this very moment, and perhaps if he holds her hand, he will no longer be afraid. 

he tries to reach for her hand   ( to save himself  and  her, too, from the dread she does not yet know  ),  lips parting to ask for permission  -  but he ends up scratching the surface of his dreams.   when asked,  his affirmation is morose; with a sorrow that tugged something buried deep within the chasm of his memories.         

❛   yes.   ❜  

like the  salut d’amour  he willingly embraces every morning,  he would hold her all the time if he could.

send  ‘🔺’ + a color for a color board of our muses          /          source (not accepting)

send  ‘🔺’ + a color for a color board of our muses          /          source

                                                          ❝ You can cut all the flowers                                                            but you cannot keep spring                                                                       from coming.❞

he's neither a writer nor an artist  ;   it is she   (  and the former soul in his body  ).  but  him,   his words are simple.   his thoughts cannot mold the abstract into letters and hues,  cannot transform a lump of clay to sculpted glory or begin wars with a speech.

but he writes,  still,   for every word is a moment's breath,  held close by human bones   (  not his before,  but his now  ),   treasured.  inked to memory.   each story is his own until he loses his ability to link events.    he remains sane.

      soojung.

he mumbles her name to himself, repeats it over and over until he grasps a part of her story  -  springtime and floods,  sunrise and sunset,  an unnamed color on the bottom-left corner of a canvas made of rainbows.  when the monologue dawns upon him,  deft fingers and a pen   (   black.  it came free when he bought his journal  )  move to do calculated strokes in the middle of a blank page. when he's done, he gestures for her to come closer and lifts the journal for her to see his writings.  the lines are neat on thick parchment.  

        秀晶

❛         you would be called  xiujing,       where i came from.         i  think.         easier to say.     but it sounds. . .      strange.        not you.                   . . .  soojung  suits  you  best.     ❜

furrowed brows,  a debate brews within the confines of his mind.  irony washes over.  the part of him that embraced the culture of his hometown is not him. speaking and writing and thinking always came easy in his mother tongue but he was never comfortable with it.   it refuses to blend with his thoughts.  

the white dog by her feet stirs and yixing tries to remain composed. he reaches for the little paper cup of  ddeokbokki  with his other hand and tips it in her direction.

❛      ——    have some.       ah,   have you eaten yet?                ........ want to go out?    ❜

▲, 4: my muse’s reaction to your muse holding their hand for the first time

surely, the fingers intertwined with his belonging to the gentle artist that is jung soojung was a reflection of reality. he had never believed in existing in a dream in an almost realistic sense but the sensation of her clammy skin, smaller hand with his has him thinking twice. 

to think he was a creator of more profound, more audacious, more incredible worlds with his hands, his words.  

jung soojung delivered very much the same in the contact of his hand. 

why? he does not know, and fears for his life in his terribly mortal body. (by gosh, this woman existed to throttle him from his carefully painted existence.) jung soojung was profound on her own, and this every fact was -- indeed, painfully mesmerising on the heaving poet’s chest. 

could you believe it? this mind that is encased in his fleshy, bony head. oh sehun is taken, in the pure touch of jung soojung. the innocent glance and sheepish interlocking of fingers has him like this. 

sehun had conquered even the most complex of women into his cotton sheets, mewling and in his horrendous, nitpicking hands. but holding this artist’ hands, her fingers that have known shades of regret and hues of pity -- that she purposely found her fingers to his hateful, spiteful bones wrapped in disgust and mortal flesh is beyond him. 

how could someone like her find herself to someone like him in this, grotesque human form? 

(she must’ve been or is a goddess in her lifetime, there is no way his perspiration, palpitations thrust him in a frenzy like this.) she was the woman he deserved to write about, he deserved to be int he mere presence of. she encapsulated the qualities the classic woman he had droned over and over for. 

no this is not reality, this physical closeness. 

taking her hand in his and to his lips, he had waited too long to have something most desirable, delicate in his clutches. 

           silence                   garu has seen these kind of symptoms before. there were a lot of emotionally unhealthy people who came by the dojo where he was trained at , but he was always ushered away due to impoliteness as the monks gather around the trembling person to whisk him away so that his sadness could be dealt with elsewhere. but he’s twenty one now , and he’s staring at the person who’s on the floor , shaking horribly , and he thinks to himself : i’ve seen this before , yet the statement that follows are : what do i do ? because he doesn’t know what he should do. doesn’t know what’s the appropriate thing to even say. but he stands over her form for a couple of minutes , just evaluating , his static expression betraying the inner turmoil he’s experiencing inside before he crouches down and seizes her shoulder — his grip firm before it softens.

         hey , he shakes her so that she’ll look up at least , snap out of it!