My days are constituted of elements of three- longing, anticipation, and thee. My eyes curse me with scarlet tributaries branching through the snowy landscape, my spine longs for a linear alignment, but I disregard these trivial corporalities and yearn- yearn like the traveller does for a tree and the farmer does for the rain. I was born for soul crushing devotion, and I was born with it to a fault. The sun rises not when it pours in its honey-coloured self onto my bed, but when you acknowledge the inherent optimism in that hour of the day. Having a schedule is so unromantic, so instead I plan my days around when my screen lights up with your name. The darting eyes towards that elaborate nom de plume, the urgency playing at my fingertips showing itself as an itch, the strenuous exercise in self-restraint that leaves me exhausted, the well-adjusted norm of being orderly and even-tempered that I shrug off with a trancelike ease, in possession of the knowledge of what character it would make me in a romance novel, but oh dearest one, it seems like I’m an ill fit for civilization, for you see, I am uncivilized for loving you like I do.
-destiny
@keats-and-shauq
moodboard and prose by me
(image credits to their respective owners on Pinterest and Tumblr, except the center-most image- that's me and my beloved)
The plasticine blades move in an obsequious circle; the wings of a man-made butterfly. A beam of light penetrates the space and deposits itself onto this shuttering circumference, it being from a ball of fire as circular as the axial rotation. The blades seem to slice through the beam, but to no avail; it remains as solid as the will of Prometheus, bringing those flames akin to mankind, striving to bring man closer to the gods. It angered them, made them burn like woodfire, and they punished Prometheus for this transgression, for they knew, a transfer of knowledge means a transfer of divinity. The skies above hold the superlatives, and can be accessed by no mortal. But a longing must be fostered, strata must be established, distinctions must be made, for without them, the gods are rendered futile, lost and obsolete. So they send their soldier called Morpheus, who visits the puny mortals time to time, and churns out a show reel of Paradise- a illusion of a geography, where the feasts replenish themselves, the streams mirror crystals, and the only war present is that between the Sun and Mother Earth, the former throwing tantrums about setting into a slumber, and letting his sister have her playtime with the surrealist vapours prancing against the blue, yellow, orange, red, or was it black? backdrop. He instills these images in the meager, mortal minds, and lulls them to a place that exists nowhere but in their imaginations.
And so the mortal opens his eyes, and looks up at the sunlight in his room across the ceiling fan, run by electricity, a modern man-made miracle. The gods never wanted them to have fire, yet they have discovered heat of a superior utility and efficiency. Why, then, was the primitive Paradise the ultimate desire?
A gust of wind shut the door and the room succumbed to darkness. He listens to the dance of the leaves outside, rustling in a rhythm, their paternal figures smashing into the electric wires above. It was then that he understood; Paradise is not a place, it is a man’s longing not to be man.
-destiny
(prose and moodboard by me)
(all image credits to their respective owners on tumblr)