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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

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Our Names in a Heart

Fandom: WandaVision Pairing: Wanda Maximoff/Vision Rating: G Word Count: 1190

Summary: Wanda watches sitcoms. Vision watches Wanda.

“Wanda, may I say something?” Vision asks.

His host halts in the process of queuing up the next episode of I Love Lucy. Oh, he does enjoy this show, particularly the zany moments of tension arising from the heroine failing to effectively synchronize her actions with those of the machine at which she works. People and technology are able to exist so harmoniously now, he thinks, expression soft as he studies Wanda’s face.

“Alright.”

She gives him a reassuring smile and his own grows in confidence. He’s noticed this about her: she’s usually more at ease the further back into television history they probe. Though still frequently standoffish, and even cold, when questioned directly about her past, she has revealed bits and pieces to him, enough that he understands the significance of sitcoms in her life. They are a tie to her childhood, a reminder that comforts rather than aggrieves. She is less defensive as she retreads the familiar ground of the Ricardo residence with her eyes.

“I’ve noticed a pattern with many of these shows. Now, I know I’m not meant to be analyzing them,” he adds before she can interrupt. “Believe me, it’s nothing so very astute. Perhaps so obvious that you would not consider it anything worth remarking upon.”

“Well, now I’m curious,” Wanda says, leaning back against the wall and holding a cushion to her stomach.

He has observed this behaviour in her before, but it’s gentler now. She doesn’t squeeze the cushion to her body or grip until the ends of her fingers turn white. The motion is relaxed, like her posture. Vision has been entirely alert to the gradual changes as they pass largely conversation-free hours watching television together. The way Wanda leaves the door to her room open in invitation when she desires his company. The fact that they’re no longer seated on the edge of the mattress but all the way back, the stand on which her television sits wheeled to the foot of the bed. With these physical signs, she’s begun to let him in. Her thoughts though… her feelings… They are not so easily accessed.

“You tend to prefer series featuring… families.” He hesitates briefly before the last word, wary of upsetting her, but the lull of the 1950s sitcom they’ve been watching appears to hold.

“Yes, they… remind me of better times.”

“Of course. Frequently, these families have children.”

Wanda smiles absently, staring at nothing.

“Pietro and I used to replicate what we could. I��m not sure which was the greatest gulf to span—limitations because of the war that raged around us or the differences between Sokovian and American culture. Certain children’s antics are universal, though they only ever made Mama and Papa laugh rather than scold, but we would also pretend that Pietro had to practice for football tryouts, or that I had some trivial crisis the day before the prom. We had such an incomplete picture—” Though her laugh is short, it warms him. “—but that imaginary world seemed so rich, so big.”

“Do you see yourself in them still? The children?”

Yesterday, she introduced him to The Brady Bunch. There were so very many children in that series into whose lives she may have wanted to step.

She blinks and Vision’s sorry to have pulled her from her memories.

“Somewhere in between,” Wanda says. “It’s the feeling of it. The completeness. The children will always cause trouble, the parents will always protect them. The parents encounter their own obstacles, which are always hidden from the children. It’s all ridiculous, but… the love is real.”

“Especially on this one,” he suggests, gesturing towards the television. “The stars were married in real life.”

“True. Even when they’re just actors, the illusion can be enough.”

“You were never bored? Some of these series ran for many, many seasons. The children grow up.”

“And the parents grow old.”

A tear escapes the corner of her eye and Vision leans towards her, alarmed, but she swipes it away on the cuff of her shirt.

“They begin to, anyway,” Wanda corrects, that momentary pinch of melancholy vanishing from her features. “The shows always end while the actors still look young.”

“Hmm. Yes.”

Vision settles back against the rails of her bedframe. He won’t press her any further, doesn’t want his perhaps needling questions to perforate this sanctuary she seems to construct every time they sit down next to each other and fix their gazes on the glow of the screen, laughing at so many silly, happy families.

Wanda sighs and shifts. Their hands brush and Vision stares at them, flying rapidly through his established protocols in search of a suitable reaction, but she slips her fingers between his before he has an answer. The music of the next episode starts and he sees the heart appear on the screen, his eyes following the path of the line that traces it. How safe the actors’ names seem within it. A cartoonish symbol of love, yet also promise, stability, and one that is never misunderstood.

He never tells her, but part of the reason for this routine of imposing his presence in the evenings is to help her through the loneliest hours. If he remains with Wanda until she begins drawing her blankets up over her legs and closing her eyes during the title sequence, Vision knows she’ll fall asleep soon after he departs. Before this began, it was during these hours that he would hear her muffled crying. He doesn’t mean to impede the natural course of her grief. He hopes he isn’t doing that. He only intends to smooth the road she must take, ideally by distracting her with the occasional discussion on the periphery of her feelings, or else by simply sitting quietly at her side.

Tonight, he drifts out of her room with an idea. A foolish idea, an incomplete plan. The kind of ill-conceived scheme that a character on one of Wanda’s favourite shows might attempt and face the obvious consequences of shortly after. He’ll keep it private. He’ll “oh, nothing” it away when she catches him staring at her consideringly and asks what he’s thinking about. But on the inside, Vision will dream.

It will begin with an evening like this. The two of them, watching television. A room where she can feel at home within a building where she feels safe. He will find the walls and she will be the life between them. It will be after all of this conflict, when her grief is smaller and her love doesn’t have to work quite so hard to persevere. Returning her family’s home to her is impossible, but a different one? With a love just as real? One where the years may pass and pass and pass, his own face unchanging, his back never to hunch and his heart never to tire? Will she accept this clumsy charade of how it could be to grow old together when he offers it?

Could she sleep where the door was always open?

He never wants to be more than a room away when he leaves her.

#my writing #wandavision #wandavision spoilers #wanda maximoff #Vision #crying through ep. 8 hell yeah

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michaelbogild · 3 years

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Quotes written April 18 2021

our mutual melodies, our ancient lights that are wed to each other

her soul is spangled with astral grace

our love had florid stretches, our love had terrible pits

Give me, Life, a draught of oblivion.

she entered the truth of this love with a heart about to burst

Of course I love her, I am eternally fond of flowers.

how easily charmed I was, how deeply you travelled into my soul

in her heart, a lone buttercup whispering something true to his ethereal dreams

she answers his soul with all the colors of her affections

the ghostly waves of her forsaken ocean

I am just a floating phantom that once were in love but now is lost

he sailed into the star-spangled night of her sirenic beauty

the florid touch of her soul's amorous eloquence

I met the angels that wrote the harmonies of our love. They were devils.

though his love her emotions became songs of starry beauty

your roses were not without their shades, shades that swallowed me and all my eternal foolishness

tonight, tonight you look like the muse of the moon

I felt in her love the true pulse of life

I writ her absence upon the heart of the unknown

Our poem died too soon, but so does all beautiful things

he set aflame the saddest moon of her heart

surreally pulled by the gravity of her cryptic songs

I still linger in the illusion that you actually loved me

finally we meet, two souls divorced for centuries

in her heart, a fearless daffodil that knows how to dream

I am not a great guitarist, but I play the piano really badly.

Touch me with the mystic silence of all your moons.

nothing is mundane when I close my eyes and dream

her love wears the spirit of an infinite rose

Your are the blue skies that lives in my soul as lies.

her beauty is a bird fluttering in the half-light of his heart

Her bohemian soul, her fancy everything.

you broke the spine of my entire universe

Lady luck, what the fuck?

she wore the endlessness of his love, an invisible dress of mystic grace

I will never see you again, I know that, but how you shine in my lyrics.

the flaming music of her wildflower affections

her roses are now praying, where is his love?

her wraithlike eyes, eyes that saw everything and nothing

time dissolved by the power of our touches

the seraphic enchantment of her gorgeous eyes of spring

I am higher than the star of her love and beauty.

A love that could deluge the heart

we ran full-tilt into what we mistook for heaven

the ambiguous rose of her half-light love

What shall tame this heart now that it has gazed into eternity?

the sad whispers of your absence is nothing but ghosts, but I can't forsake them

she is the temple I pray in, she is the darkness outside of it

our love unfolded a higher reality

see was too ethereal to embrace

Writing poetry has become a psychedelic for me.

timeless temptress, muse of my heart, sing, sing into this night that never ends

we were the throbbing pulse of that night, we burned harder than the stars

he orbits her beauty with his delirious verses

I am suspended in a sky that exist beyond my life.

the ascending poetry of our young love

I am as broken as the autumn that gave birth to me.

the burning cathedral of our star-crossed love

The canvas is empty...and will remain so until she returns.

he excites her heart with the force of a thousand dreams

you deserve an ode that will survive the stars

I planted flowers of poetry on the grave of our love

I will rebuild my life, brick by brick, without you.

the bleeding bride of the moon, whispering to me something unclear, in a night, in a night of a thousand oddities

we took flight towards heaven winged with a thousand hopes

I read a page from her mystic heart and fell irretrievably in love

there are definitely moments when I feel like a cosmic child

she rejoiced in the spring with all the roses of her dreams

thinking about you is flirting with melancholy

I exist outside of my brain, in the world of a dream that can't possibly be real.

they married the vastness of each other's love

we were fit for paradise, but we burned it down

a poem written by the ink of God

You do not own my heart, the night does, which has stopped calling out your name.

we belong in the heart of the cosmos, our love will take us there

He scored the royal flush of women, but did he know?

her beauty, a mystic pearl

her heart was slighted by the summer of his beauty

how easily she stirs the depths of his wonder

no one will ever find the broken crown of our love, except of course they read my poems

All her stars were enchanting, she sang their light into his heart.

the lyrical dreams of our far-travelling souls

her love was a hollow poet

he brushed the marigolds of her feelings

the resounding canyon of his hearts flaming love-poems

As you played with my heart your own slowly rotted.

in this mystic night of oddities, a profound deepening, whispers, subtle lights, and all my future seen as memories

She lit a candle in the darkest room of my heart.

the elusive butterflies of her more-than-divine love

her love felt like an ancient secret, a hidden star

she wears the yoke of a thousand yesterdays

the yawning abyss of everything I have become, the endless darkness, oh the infinite darkness

The soul of midsummer has turned into the stars of her eyes

I lost my way when I decided to love you

dancing on the shore of his love, daydreaming with the waves

her hopes are now weeping within the saddest cadences of nightingales

she loves with the persistence of a waterfall

the secret rose of her soul was perfumed with the miracle of his love

the radiant songs of our hearts are now wounds of unutterable darkness

this stranded homeless soul, this soul without a dream

From soulmates to strangers, what a beautiful ending.

every song is a knife that cuts me open, how I bleed your absence

she drinks the wine of his soul

His captivated heart sails upon the waves of her songs.

her soul wears the perfume of his heart's golden poetry

the moons of her love were nothing but mirages

the transient dance of shallow love is all she has experienced

I am stranded in a desert void of her love

...and I drank a cup of stars, and I forgot the world and every traitor in it.

the ink that praises you ought to live forever

she weaves into his soul the astral charms of her wildflower sensuousness

the perpetual darkness of her devilish gravity

the astral flare of our young and burgeoning love

she could dream forever in the warmth of his arms

everything this girl does is shaped like poetry

he painted his dreams with all the colors of her personality

he shapes with his summery love the budding constellations of her dream-wild soul

we stand outside the seasons, touched by colours that don't exist

like a careless wave is fate when she washes over us

I keep circling the soul of what we had, I am knee-deep in memories

her love, my lethe

he held her in a mystic embrace, entering her heart like a thousand pulsating truths

his strong affections are madrigals of summer, strains of serendipitous light

she is perfectly scented with the roses of God

But her songs have shades and only them am I allowed to embrace

Where is my mind? Have you seen it? Did her love steal it? I will ask the moon.

at the threshold of true love, two souls ready to be united forever

kissed by a moon-goddess on a night of sweet surrender

the dreadful dissonance that is now between us, how harrowing to my heart

Snowflakes, so many snowflakes. Where are we? Oh yes, in a dream.

She basks in his vast beauty, transfixed on his beautiful lips.

her imperial eyes of sure victory

His flames are French, his warrior-heart Greek.

he is on every page of her heart

only he can read the pages of her blood

the fleeting muse of my crepuscular soul

we ascended into the heart of a sea-born mystery

I kept dancing at the edge of illusion, trying again and again to trap reality

only through love could we flow into each other's souls

the imperial flame of her ruthless soul

lonely lips, aching skin, fevered heart

the astral joys of simply just holding you

We are satellites in a sorrowful twilight, drifting further and further away from each other

Yes, I fell, but into poems.

The spring moon took us into his dreams.

You emptied day by day my soul of stars.

the spirit of the darkness, her eternal twin

richly charmed I was, deep in dreams that sang your name in rainbows

Not even Shakespeare could produce poetry this rapidly.

I live at the periphery of something that shouldn't exist

another love, another soul whose beauty will grow back my wings

We will live forever. Our love is one of divinity's rhymes.

so wondrously colored were the dreams of our burgeoning love

her words are courtesans, her eyes are lies

we turned into ethereal light in those resplendent moments of sensual love

They interwove their imaginations and composed a dream of endless splendour

you were a secret path to paradise

she liberated with a tender kiss the sunlight of his soul

he crucified with his goodbye all the roses of her hopeful love

the songs of her beauty, chains

She charms his emotions with all the summers of her heart.

the astral richness of her dreamily divine eyes

the wistful dusk has a song for our hearts

my dreams are becoming more and more solid

Often did he sail to the moon when she loved him, often did he enter the pulse of life.

bathing in the moonlight of his faithful love

I feel the alluring gravity of her notes, I throb with every beat of her wildflower airs

we met within the colors of a sudden mystery

The evanescent music of those dreamy spheres, how I miss it.

I imagined a heaven that could never exist

her love is a conduit of colours, the spring of eternal songs

she breaks the borders of my very thoughts, her soul is pure endlessness

the truest colour must be that of your eyes

the soft whispers of angels can still contain lies

the infatuated moons of her sea-kissed heart

he reached with a perfect kiss the secret lyrics of her spring-blessed soul

I clung to a dream that didn't want me.

your love and beauty is the true world and the only world I will worship

our moonstruck hearts spoke in the poetry of sensual touches

To think of you is to walk at the contour of a mystery.

We have never been further apart, so why do I feel you so deeply in my bones?

Venus herself could not have slid into my soul any faster than you

the velvet paradise of her seraphic love

our love had a spiritual chorus, but this religion had to die

the aching ocean of her breakable heart

the burning pilgrim-notes of her desirous love

His imagination has taken on the shape of the universe.

she is made entirely of night-songs

she floats into empty spaces and decorates them with all the colours and shapes of his translatable beauty

she invites another universe into my heart

Everything she is, everything she does, summons poetry from his soul.

the sunset knows my heart better than you ever did

I amorously burn through verses and visions. I miss you all the time.

the liberated Venus of her bashful beauty

he rides on the crests of her oceanic emotions

the luscious strains of her beauty's cosmic song

black tears, all I shed now are black tears

you darken my writings, your dusk is everywhere

I was enslaved within the songs of the sea-nymphs, I felt a thousand waves curse my bones and blood.

though naked she wears the spirit of the night

I am restlessly rooted in nights that call out your name.

her poems like ornately-colored butterflies

I can finally drink the wine of my own spirit.

she danced with the soul of his love on a shore of exotic dreaming

foolishly anchored in the elusiveness of his love

vaster than the dreams of God is her summer-born beauty

nothing can dream like a pair of green eyes

he chases immortality through sonnets of glorious devotion

they were ready to drown in each other's blood

she is the throbbing pulse of his verdant poetry

love, the mirage I supposed real

I am high on the poetry of this life, this life with you

She plays with the unsung darkness, places the dusk upon her tongue.

Ever a slave to her sorcerous spirit.

how rapidly we turned into stars, how deeply we felt the cosmos of love's deepest truths

loving her was like dancing next to an abyss, drunk

I stand in the rich blaze of her mystic spirit

he courts her jasmine heart with a poem of unbeatable eloquence

the sea-nymphs of her silken voice speaks of endless love

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travisfranks · 6 years

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For the Love of Words

Until this trip, I’d never really paused to think about why I write. Perhaps I had some superficial surface level idea, and that common anecdotal adage of ‘ever since I can remember I’ve wanted to be a writer’. I’m not sure it’s a static thing. It changes. It ‘depends’. At an earlier, less happier time in my life it was a necessary form of escapism. I could build my own world and lower myself down until fully submerged in it, like an elderly person into a hot bath. Relax and be absorbed in a new temperature.

I typically write two different forms: poetry and fiction. The motivation for each is different. Poetry is primarily a form of catharsis. It’s a means of processing. I put all my anger and dissatisfaction with the world into my poetry. It’s why, no matter how hard I try, it always seems to end up dark and depressing. I purge all the emotions I’m not able to deal with onto the page and try to beautify them, even if at its core it’s about something ugly. Apply the aesthetics of poetics to make it something real and honest.

Other times poetry starts with a line, running through my head on repeat until I write it down and set it free. But those lines have to come from somewhere. Often, it feels like these poems write themselves. Like I’m channelling someone, dictating for a unseen entity that whispers in my ear.

I come to see myself. Poetry pulls my insides out to the surface. It’s a reflection, not just of me, but of my place in the world, and how I may or may not fit into it. How I react to it. I come a little closer to articulating the thoughts that obfuscate themselves, that keep themselves to my periphery. Poetry is venting, if perhaps a cowardly way for me to address the world directly, to tell it and the people in it exactly what I think of them. And of course, what I think of myself.

Fiction is different. I’m not sure why certain things snag my attention and insist on being written, but ultimately, I strive harder to focus on the positive things I see in the world and share that with my reader. I love melancholy, the bittersweet, happiness rounded out with a hint of sadness. I love magical realism, things that reflect my belief that there are things in the world that we don’t understand, yet underline my belief that we are unable to name them, that we will never know where magic comes from or what it does. I like finding this magic in the mundane. All that cowers from the limelight and exists just beneath the surface. Often, its very simple things.

When writing fiction, I almost always begin by identifying a theme. A message I want to send out into the world. Understanding what my point of view is, and letting it flow out from there, as the original source. With poetry, I often just start writing and only begin to identify its finer points when it’s almost finished. It’s like rubbing at the indents on a blank page of an old and well-used notebook. There are words there, invisible, but as the graphite scratches across the page it slowly reveals itself. You just have to know it’s there to bring it to the surface.

But of course, across all this there is the love of words and the satisfaction found in making them do beautiful and powerful things. And sharing them, trading them with other writers who love them just as much as I do. This is why I love spending time with other writers, and why this cross-cultural trip to China has been so incredible; to exist in a space where people who have led different lives can come together and share themselves through a love of words.

#rmituniversity #rmitoutbound #rmitglobal #rmit #Sun Yat-sen #guangzhou #china #creativewriting #studytour

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