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#〈♙*〉an ache in the chest; neither wound nor heart ╲ OZYMANDIAS
phantasmaw · 1 year
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♢*   —   @kmmba​ /  𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐑: 𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 
❝ all too often, people are blinded to all but their immediate self-interest. ❞
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     〈 ♙* 〉┊ The child’s eyebrows pinch together in pure concentration  as he tries to pick apart the solemn god’s words. There’s wisdom there, he’s sure of it. After all, the god sounds exactly the way his abuela does when commenting on some of the town gossip. She always clicks her tongue and gives him advice on how to (or, more often, how not to) behave afterwards. But she never uses words that big. He squeezes his eyes shut and replays what he just heard in her voice. The shape of meaning begins to form. Fuzzy and distant, it warps into something he can almost feel on his fingertips. It’s like the downy feathers of the malformed wings sprouting from his brother’s back. But that’s a sensation he’s only able to bear for a few seconds at a time. So he opens his eyes and sighs a long, heavy, defeated sigh. 
     “Okay,” he mumbles with a slump of his shoulders. He doesn’t feel particularly happy about agreeing with the god. Again, his brows pinch together. It doesn’t feel good to say just that and leave the topic. But what else can he say? There’s no reassuring hand on his shoulder or a familiar voice telling him to repeat after them like the services held each Sunday. And what the god has just said sounds an awful lot like that sort of grown-up talk. Definite, final, judgment passed before an action even occurred. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not steal. Honor thy father and thy mother. Do not eat out where they can see, for their reverence will turn to fear. Thou shalt not lie. Thou art blinded by immediate self interest. 
      inside a hollow chasm shaped like a sternum, the tumor grumbles, and the boy feels a slight twinge somewhere between the slots of his left ribcage. 
     He raises his gaze, brown eyes glimmering with the radiant sunlight. He studies his elder’s face so grandiosely haloed by the beaming sun. It reminds him of the pictures of marble carvings he likes to look at in his mother’s collection of big, thick books. His fingers twitch with the sudden need to trace down the smooth line of the god’s cheek. “Okay,” he repeats, a bit more slowly, as if he’s testing how it tastes, “what else are they s’pposed to see? They have to look at that, because, um, you have to…” he trails off, floundering in faulty memory. He licks his lips. A faint tang of iron bursts across his tongue. “...you have to… to walk in the narrow way…” 
     And as soon as he says that, he realizes he doesn’t know what it means just as he doesn’t know what his companion means. He doesn’t know what any of it means. His lips remain parted, but he makes no sound. A warm breeze rustles through the dry grass and his wild cowlicks of hair. His gaze follows its invisible path. The sun nearly blinds him when he looks all the way up. A smile breaks through the clouds of uncertainty and fear that had gathered on Crane’s face. “Okay!” he chirps, entirely confident in agreeing now. “Well, I don’t see my, uh– immediate self interest-” (and his chest puffs out in pride when he’s able to repeat that long phrase without faltering once) “-right now. I see you. I like seeing you.” He bounces back on his heels, arms swinging back and forth to maintain balance. “What do you look at, mister god? That’s okay to ask, right? ‘Cause you’re not most people, right?”
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