Warden

In Aventurine’s dream, his mother called him into a green canopy, full of soft petals and sweet fruit. Like summertime. Her smile, her downturned eyes, her hands knitting a light gauze of a sweater. It’s large enough to be meant for him, not her frail shoulders.

Blink once, and then you see her fingertips bruising from frostbite.

“Mama…?”

The woman seemed surprised, as if she forgot having called her son over into the garden.

“Kakavasha! Is this a dream?”

“I…”

“Everyone loves this beautiful dream,” Aventurine’s childhood chimes in, “Papa, Mama, and Big Sis are all here.”

The fog, like glaucoma over the horizon dims the world, and as much as Aventurine would call their names, no one answers. His mom is gone without a trace in the ashen gray. His childhood nothing but disappeared. Still the rain won’t fall. His time won’t come.

After much nothingness, the weather lifts. The horizon soon reveals a lunar rip in the sky.

You know this blackhole.

You’ve been here before.

It sucks in the gentle breeze into nothingness, then the flowering wood, the flocks of birds in the air, the air out of your lungs.

A heartbeat. Somewhere far away.

The pitter, patter of falling rain.

Another morning awaits.

I haven't written to you, I never had the chance because my mind was busy wandering from inexperience of losing someone I truly knew and from being bamboozled over what was happening in your twisting, paralyzed body, Lin..

And I was sincerely hoping that I'd find you again somewhere after losing you to 3 nights of tropical storm, Bel.

You were both like soft candles in a dark dreary world, full of orange and fiery energy but gentle enough to make friends with. That's what you do best. That's what I still struggle to do. Maybe I can ask you to give me more tips if we ever hypothetically cross paths again.

How can anyone have so strong a will to live that doesn't suck life out of others? So much physical pain and internal failure but you wouldn't hear those problems by the cheerful meow of his insecure love, always treasuring his place in belongingness. Well, I hope I made it clear enough for you it's mutual, boy.

I opened my eyes surprised that I didn't dream about you,

But maybe that's how waking up in the absence of your warmth on my belly feels more empty,

Thank you for fighting for more time together, little boy,

Favorite quotes in case you can't watch it:

"The day that two politicians are arguing about whether science is true, it means nothing gets done... It's the beginning of the end of an informed democracy."

"You can find a scientific paper that says practically anything... If scientists agree on a single thing, then you have stepped out of the world of science... If you think scientists want to always agree with one another, you've never been to a scientific conference because people are duking it out. But what are they fighting over? Not the settled science that's been in the books, we're fighting over the bleeding edge of what is not yet known, and that is the natural course of science."

"For an emergent scientific truth to become an objective truth (ie. the truth that is true whether or not you believe in it), it requires more than one scientific paper; it requires a whole system of people's research all leaning in the same direction, all pointing to the same consequences."

"It's irresponsible to create public policy while ignoring the scientific community's consensus."

CONTENT WARNING: a personal rant coming ahead! If today is not a good day for your headspace, please do scroll away. Just thought I wanted to be real with people I care about.

Can't believe it's been 6 years since this video! Still rings true. Unfortunately, I'm not just referring to climate change, but more entirely politics overpowering science.

...More about the way that systematic study is relegated to "overthinking" or "elitism" when it doesn't suit one's self-interests (or capacity to comprehend). More about how it feels like science is a party trick that people like to conveniently cite (cherry pick) whenever their cognitive biases are given validation.

Self-validation is the most ironic way to use science; science of all things! A process that is supposed to continually doubt, test, and refine truth!

How you think, matters. Other people won't do the thinking for you. That's the final, if not the only, power we have as mere dots in a statistical chart that 1% own (to put it dramatically. you get the picture).

Politics is necessary, but poor thinking can easily corrupt it.

Even house and classroom politics is poor. People are generally scared of conflict. Most don't know how to resolve disagreements. Most don't see arguments as exchange of ideas, they see it as personal attack. People demand for free speech but don't know how to navigate through differences. We resort to censorship and silence because it's the only way we know to keep the peace. In the end, what we find most important to us (which we encounter in disagreements) are never addressed. To "keep the peace," we stopped addressing them.

It's no question you feel lost, but you'll find your crowd.

You'll find your crowd, and collect a variety of mess-ups plus lessons along the way. That's the fun of it.

Each person is like a book, some of them hide too many pages, and that's okay.

You don't have to burn bridges, and you don't have to wait still for folded pages, either.

It's raining, but I feel like taking a walk. It's been a while since the last one. A faded umbrella half my age rattles awake from its dusty station. Off we go.

The sky is a lovely muted whiteness, but the city is cold, maybe cold enough for second thoughts. My stubbornly stiff feet don't turn back.

The road accepts two directions, either way a very long trip to anywhere new and different. Either way sort of flooded and empty. The good thing about the puddles splashing against my calves is that it's exactly why there are no people around.

Just me, and you. Whoever you are. Whatever you are. I end up talking to you the most, so I might as well consider you a presence.

Blessings hurt to admit when you find them in people whom you think deserve worse.

And Wilhem counted smarter than most, if you could measure brightness in scored papers and blushing opps.

He was a young man who believed in honor then virility, and he certainly did not pretend not to feel proud of himself.

There's no shortage of friends and even less so of enemies, but what mattered was that he was well-liked by people who mattered. Just like his respectable father used to say, when he could still speak and lead the family.

A small, sullen bell waits at the tail of one life span.

Or so his mother used to warn him, before hers began to rang. It was almost common sense, but maybe not really; what does a bell have to do with anything?

It's got nothing to do with life as we know it, and nothing to do with Weiss, who lives on and lives on, works each day a fulfilling grey.

If fairy godmothers were real, their vain wands would complain of how Brother Weiss was blessed with heaven on earth, which many people seem to struggle to find, and how Brother Weiss carried with him various memorabilia, never looking forward, only, always, fondly, behind. Rewind, rewind, rewind.

A sweet bliss, a quiet life without sound or wish.

A nothing. Silent slumber.

Not a word to be said.

Not a name to mean anything.

Loving sky

On blessings high

Take my breath away

But to live, and dream,

And more importantly, think,

Those are mine, and mine alone

I should never ask for freedom again

For anyone who claims to give it

Has no choice but to take it away

If you think yourself a good master

Why,

Hello, boy. Was it you?

Morning rises, like it did three weeks ago. It was raining heavily on its first lap, and we both witnessed sleepily that it rose without its usual soft-spoken brilliance. That night, I fell into a deep sleep, but not before capturing the sight of you disappearing into the distance for your usual midnight stroll.

Now, the weather is too dry, and I see too many things around our house. The day welcomed me with the putrid smell of something dead, and perhaps hidden behind a bunch of forgotten things that we'd given up on clearing and cleaning, because I could not see anything out of place from what our house has always been.

It sends me unease. You never found your way back home, and I could never find you. What was I to think of this scent that grows stronger the farther I open the entrance to our home?

And I still can't find where it's coming from. Is it even you?

It's hard to bear. Were you alive still, just two days ago? I couldn't find you, if only I did, at least two days ago.

Summary: Magdalena visits where she last saw Johan every year, but he only watches silently. Prompt: see below

The night doesn't end. The candlewick just breaks off deep into the candle; I don't even deserve to witness it burn to the end. All I have is my bare arms, cold near the riverbend.

Where did you go? The years start to blur the patterns I embroidered With these clumsy fingers that miserably throw The remaining traces of you, now only a photo

Remains of you. If it's true that a man never dies without leaving his body, And if you are still around behind the petrichor and mildew, Let this night at least comfort me with déjà vu.

//

I hope the night goes on. Burn slowly, let me study your figure a while longer. It aches to see you don't buy yourself new dresses anymore. How many more years until you finally forget me?

I will stay forever. Although you won't see me, can't recognize me, I will never fail to protect you by the year. I have to see you again.

Nothing remains of us. Best think of me dead, my love. I will trade my world to profess it on your lips again. But such is not the calling of a wolf without its sheepskin.

Inspiration: https://jrozalski.com/projects/8elzGx

Prompt: masquerade ball

Summary: Warden welcomes you to the masquerade.

Have you been one acquainted with the night?

The hall sure befits the resplendentest of kings and lavishest of queens,

For sure and more, but a gaze wandering serves only ill.

No noble cause awaits; tonight is grim-visaged dance to the commoner's lute.

Tonight, you leave prayers in your mother's bedchambers and virtues to the sinner's gallows;

Tonight, you undress your monsters, and are safe behind... a mask.

Welcome to the masquerade! Will you prove to be my lover, or perhaps villain?

You need not fear on your lonesome, if you will be at all, for one always finds a hand in this dark hall;

The hall knows and the hall waits, but for now I am shadow that your sun creates.

I will be kind and ever sweet, I promise only a dance, and only in a dance we shall meet.

Say blessings or curses, all you will, upon this hall of cajolery and lust unmanned—speak all that you may, as much as sanity withstand.

And when all is over, take a bow, for that is only polite.

Prompt: silent screams of the darkness

Summary: Life is a balancing act, but the trampoline is missing.

It's a tragedy because it hurts to become the ending.

You're paid slave wages to become who they want you to be. "Be yourself," they say, and, "I want to see you grow."

Be yourself; do what they say.

Adoration and praises buy you time to heal, but it won't shrink the bills. One way to do that though, is to shrink yourself. Simple math!

Every day you d st oy your mind and body, since that's all you know to do, and you stopped looking for clues. Your psyche is halfway through solving this daily conundrum.

These days, you think twice about who really deserves your energy. Do you?

Prompt: leaves gently falling down from the trees and fluttering in the wind

Summary: Atlas survived countless tragedies, but still seems inclined to follow them where they go. His present friend, Rune, is too curious to leave him be.

Atlas is supposed to be dead. He had belonged to the First Collegium Massacre, after all. Not that he ever made it to the body count of poor old merchants. Touched by the gods, it was said.

He was under the front-desk counter then, covered in black soot, choking as if he would die a second death just by breathing in the thick smoke. He couldn't even knee up through the heat. Contrary to common sense, his skin appeared to be barely touched by the fire after it died out.

Now, you find Atlas in the oldest alleyway of the city, eyes rapidly blinking away the pain of a penetration wound, temporarily bidding farewell to his otherwise ever-constant digestive system. He would close his eyes, and that would be it.

Rune nearly skidded on the cement, arriving faster than professional emergency response in record time, scolding the old man between breaths, "How many times do I have to tell you, if you get in trouble with muggers, either you hit—"

"I hit, run, or talk shit, right. I remember, Rune. I haven't developed dementia in centuries, what makes you think I'll have the pleasure of it now?" Atlas opened his eyes, removing himself from fake death. He remained on the cold, littered ground of Goldthwester Alley, doing nothing but grumble about the predictable damage reversal happening in his belly.

Rune merely sighed and watched the forever-retired merchant's body reconstruct itself over her knees. "Well, how are you feeling? Might as well find out, if you're gonna keep jumping into danger."

"Like a thousand needles prickling my legs. I feel better on the ground, though," Atlas lightheartedly responded with a thumbs-up.

She helped the man up after the tedious wait was over and, smelling that many places stank, made a face like Atlas himself was litter that needed to be disposed of. But as always, she'll be driving the litter home where he can take a break from his history (and malodor).

After answering the bare minimum for homework, she would read to him late into the night. She would ask about places he'd been to, and thoughts he'd had.

He'd tell her everything, except his one wish that he thinks about day in, day out.

She pretty much guessed it, but wouldn't utter a word of it.

She wouldn't ask about why.

She would mark the stories which made the old man cry and carefully plan to read them to him again after a few weeks have passed. And then she'd fall asleep and Atlas would carry her to her own bed.

He cannot sleep, and he cannot stop thinking. But for a moment, his thoughts were briefly relieved by a spontaneous view outside the window, of the first leaves being shed.