aixeko - Tumblr blog

aixeko · 6 months ago

Text

──────⏯ A WORK OF ART [ ▸ ]

MAIN MASTERLIST ➤ HSR MASTERLIST

🎨 “ I'LL FIGHT FOR CONTROL BUT THE "RIGHT WAY" TAKES A TOLL AND STILL AT THE END OF IT ALL I CAN'T ESCAPE MY FATE THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL. “ .𖥔 ݁ ˖

| Starring | Famous Violinist!Kafka x [ Child prodigy, failed adult ] Artist!Reader

| Setting | Modern AU

| Scenario | [ SHORT FIC ] ANGST! Hurt/comfort. Mental Breakdown. Unhealthy mindset. Artist’s struggles. Low self esteem. Identity crisis. Established relationship. Kafka & reader is engaged. Rushed ending… NOT PROOFREAD.

► RADIO CHANNEL [Author note]

× My first Kafka fic on here, wow. Happy holly jolly christmas <3 ×Something about this triggered the 5 stages of grief in me so hard. I hate this fic with my entire soul, it’s so badly written I’m sorry. Especially at the end, It’s so disappointing. Sorry... × Anyway, I highly recommend listening to the duet version between Kaveh and Haitham of Writing on the Wall ! It captures the feels of this fic greatly.

[ Word count: 2721 ] Sources: Love and Deep space, Kafka cosplay, and real life images found on pinterest.

🎻 "I'll come save your soul as your "Right way" takes a toll and then at the end of it all I will rewrite your fate as writing on the wall." ✮⋆˙

With every stroke that strikes the hauntingly pale canvas, the aching prominent in your shoulder seems to grow as if roaring waves taking the form of liquid paint have crashed upon you without a moment's notice. The weight of each stroke takes its toll on you, accumulating like the darkening of the heavens and gathering of clouds before their fierce rage captures its victims in ominousness and instability.

In such a suffocating atmosphere, time felt like nothing more than a worthless nuisance, with its worth only to disturb the bothered and the unbothered. Has the star that this miserable home orbits already fallen prey to slumber, or has its opposite already shrouded the sky in its woefulness? How many times has the Earth already taken its rest while you fought your fatigue under the guise of devotion to one's art? How often have you endeavored to bring forth a masterpiece from a hand marred by mistakes and a mind colored with imperfections? How much longer can your heart allow you to continue this disgraceful creation you would dare call "art"?

Without any hindrance to your movement, another imperfect splash of color daubs the canvas.

Sweat that has amassed begins to feel like the submersion of the ocean itself, followed by the rise and fall of rapid breathing, a frantic attempt to hold a semblance of living in this polluted air brought about by your own destruction.

Your eyes bore into the incoherent carnage of colors. Trembling.

A genius is what you were; a fallen genius is what you are. A desperate soul scouring every inch of one's own being in search of that familiar sensation of flowing fluency, of inspiration, and of motivation. Only to find nothing more than broken pieces.

Without your consciousness's consent, the fuming flame that begs to be unleashed took over, and the hairs of your brush crashed onto the canvas. It takes a while before your lidded eyes glisten, before snapping open at the realization of your misstep. You shake your head nonstop, lips quivering at the distasteful spectacle before your eyes, a sight that nearly has you falling from your high stool.

Calm down, calm down, calm down, calm down, calm down! CALM DOWN!

You repeatedly try to tell yourself, your vision blurring again at the wetness of anguish that weighs on unfulfilled dreams stemming from swollen, red eyes. The strength of your grip tightens around the same tool meant to aid you, a tool that was never meant to destroy you, a tool you now feel immense shame to even have the rightfulness of holding.

NO.

Your mind is fooling you with lies of deception; yes, that's what it is; that's what it is called: lies, lies, lies. You're still the same prodigy you always were and have been.

This brush is still yours to bear; this brush is still your territory, your invincible sovereignty where no others can take it away from you. For the first time in months, your eyes wander to something beyond the impending doom of your ambition.

You mustn't give up now, no, not yet, not now, not ever, not until your heart ceases to beat and your body turns to ashes of the past. Fame or attention, it doesn't matter; you must, you HAVE to see this through to the end, the day of its completion, the day when it will bask in its infinite glory. No matter the cost, you will... or else—what was the point of all those praises?

They can't be mere meaningless praises of pity toward an innocent, simple-minded child, right? You're still the little prodigy your mother and father had proudly proclaimed all those years ago, right?

Right...?

The shuddering grip on the brush and the unbalanced posture reveal a narrative diverging from reality, a tale where truth has been distorted into a mere blemish on a meticulously crafted illusion. A revelation that you may be able to lie to yourself and others, but one that you cannot lie to your body and soul.

You knew; you always have. You may have had the passion and talent, but you long ago lost one, holding tightly to another, and believing you still have both under your control.

You weren't the same talented child that so many adored anymore, but you were still the same child who continued to be a pathological people-pleaser who only wanted the acknowledgment of others.

In the end, fame and attention do matter because they define the very reasons for your identity and the continuation of your undesirable life.

You are fully aware of this fact, yet you cannot seem to stop yourself. A true artist would weave their personal tragedy and fabricate it into a timeless masterpiece. Yet, you have never pondered one important detail.

What becomes of an artist when their brush is meek, their mind lost in the abyss, with no visions to seek? When their passion has already lost its spark to ignite, and sorrow lingers on, untouched and cold?

It was already nighttime; the moon was at its fullest, yet you don’t have the will to care anymore, lost in the darkness of your thoughts. You don’t indulge in the tiredness, the empty pit in your stomach, or the concentrated primal desire to finally let loose of your entire being. A tempting, melodious voice murmurs in the back of your mind, consuming the entirety of your senses, an offer to travel to the lowest part of the earth, where even the greatest of scientists have yet to discover the fullest extent of it. The watery depth that is known as the abyss, the ocean in which silence can devour you whole. Devoid of a singular worry, devoid of the guilt of being pathetically idiotic in the field where you should have been unsurpassable, devoid of having to live with the fact that you will never be enough no matter the effort you have invested in. Because in the end, puppeteered by fate's hands, those who are blessed by beings of greater power will always succeed over the untalented.

You tilt your head upward, and immediately that nauseating feeling runs its course all over your body. The moonlight emitting through the clear paneglass window mocks you for your misery, taunting you with the art piece that you have embarrassingly spent months on, only to end up with nothing more than a disfigured, incoherent shot of colors. You bite your lip for what seems to be the hundredth time, your swollen eyes streaming enough tears to cover an entire river.

What would everyone think of me? My audience? My mother? My father? You stare up blankly at the ceiling, unable to bear looking at your own creation, a reflection of your inner chaos. What would they all think of me? You wish to never see it again. A heaviness settles in your chest, and you wish to rid yourself of it all, to vanish into nothingness. Your body slumps, silence wrapping around you, thick and suffocating, leaving only shadows of questions echoing in the stillness where time has lost its meaning. What would you think of me—Kafka?

Your grip around your brush loosens, and eventually, your hands relax. You hear the brush drop to the floor alongside the mess of equipment, but its sound registers as nothing more than muffled background noise.

Your eyes surrender to the painful longing to rest, whether involuntarily or voluntarily; you do not know. Slowly, your body begins to yield. You lean back slightly, feeling the world tilting along with you in slow motion like a steady dance with gravity. You're falling, you realize. To say you care would be another lie because you don't. Rather, the eventual fall feels surreal and oddly comforting, like you're drifting into a gentle dream, and the cold floor is like that of a comforting bed that you slump into after a long-awaited day of hard work.

Time stretches, and the world dims, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears and the arrival of the wooden floor, a final act of surrender as you wait for impact.

If I fall, art will perish with me.

If I don't...

You wait and wait and wait, but the feeling of the harsh wooden floor never comes into contact with your head. Instead, all you could feel were those calloused, ever-so-cautious, indistinguishable hands. You need no vision to identify whose hands those belong to; their touch alone speaks volumes. Those were the hands of a person who has spent a lifetime honing their ability to the utmost, practicing every day with precision and care. The hands of a talented, hardworking genius, someone that you believe you were.

"You're home early." You let out a voice barely above a whisper and drained of a will to live.

"I'm afraid I'm late."

Her usual sultry and dragged-out voice has significantly softened to quiet murmurs only meant for the comfort of your ears. There's an intimacy in her tone as if every whisper is a precious secret she's reluctant to reveal to the world.

You let out an 'Mn' sound, acknowledging her words before you open your teary eyes. Kafka remains silent, her expression unreadable as she observes your evident misery and the wrecked, enormous portrait that she perceives as a reflection of herself, waiting patiently for you to break the silence. Her eyes, filled with equal concern and curiosity.

A deep, shaky exhale escapes you. You sit up before bending forward with your clasped hands pressed tightly against your head and your arms on your thighs. "Kafka," another heavy exhale releases. "Why... tell me, why do we choose to create?"

You hear a slight hesitation in her step; then you feel her hand gently resting on top of your head, the warmth of her touch seeping through, and another hand on your shoulder, grounding you in her presence.

"Because it is the only thing that fate cannot define."

That fate cannot define? You jumped out of your seat, knocking the stool to the ground and catching Kafka off guard, even more so when you hauled her by the collar.

"That's bold coming from you," you pull her closer, "A genius like you wouldn't know how hard it is to struggle to create, especially considering the human desire is to CREATE. You will never KNOW the struggle to have passion but never the talent to make something that isn't nauseating to look at." Kafka's lips part to speak, but in the midst of the storm that has clouded your sight, the world is all but utter darkness to you, and she is the one exception on whom you can vent your frustration.

"People are CHOSEN by FATE; they are CHOSEN, not MADE, not LEARNED. THEY ARE CHOSEN. KAFKA."

"Music is to the soul what words are to the mind, and art is no different; it is a language without words."

Kafka's left fingers traced your collarbone to your jawline, tilting your head slightly until she rested her hand on your cheek, gently wiping away the streaming tears.

"Would you call a genius who spent countless hours and years cultivating their skills until their hands are imprinted with their experience an act of fate, a chosen one?"

"I—"

"You wouldn't." Kafka leans towards you to kiss away the tears of the untouched side. "What a silly question, isn't it? Why do we create? There is no definite answer, and that's what makes art, art."

"Art is a reflection of an artist's truest form of emotion, a way of communication away from the eyes of the world; is it not?"

It is. You admit it mentally, but that reason does not define you; no, the opposite is really, but ashamed to admit it to your fiancée, you turn away from her gaze to save what little dignity you have left.

If I fall... I will give up on art.

Kafka sighed; she let go of her hold and walked past you. Your fists clenched, and you bit your bottom lip until the flesh of it was pierced through until blood was the only thing you could taste, and loud, discordant noise was all you could hear. Your heart was pounding, and it was dropping. Did you just lose the one soul that you have found comfort in? Did you really just lose the one fucking thing that remained a constant in your life? Are you this much of an imbecile?

If I don't... I will continue.

"You look like a lost puppy," Kafka trailed a small streak of red paint on your cheek. "That said, I prefer to see my puppy smiling."

You blink, and for the first time since her arrival, clarity cuts through the haze of your own downpour, revealing your fiancée, your wife, your lover—the woman who has not just stolen but nurtured your heart.

"Was it not you who told me all those years ago that I should stop obsessing over every little detail when I was a naïve teenager?" Kafka sighed dreamily, her smile reaching her eyes and that tender gaze boring mesmerizingly into yours. In this moment, this woman, this woman who presents herself in such a devilish presence, now looks like God's most beautiful creation, an angel who has descended from heaven.

Your lips part, wanting to say something, but those words get lost in your throat as you drag yourself across the floor, hands reaching out to embrace her tightly.

This time for myself.

"...Why couldn't I be a genius? Why couldn't I be born with natural talents?"

"Shh, my love, let your mind rest and focus on the sound of my heartbeat."

As you stand there, the world outside fades into background noises, and her heartbeat is the only melody in which you allow yourself to indulge. Her thumb rubs the painted streak on your cheek, and you lean into her touch, feeling the frustration of before melt away.

"I should have been here for you; a month away from you is a grave regret." Kafka pressed her lips against your head. "You are enough just as you are, and I am here now to prove it to you."

Your eyes grew heavier and heavier until, in the peace of her presence and the warmth of her love, you felt a sense of tranquility wash over you, guiding you into a much-needed, peaceful slumber.

"Ludwig van Beethoven once stated that the true artist is not proud; he unfortunately sees that art has no limits. He feels darkly how far he is from the goal, and though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius appears only as a distant guiding sun."

"Then I guess... I'll just have to work until you can't tell the difference between me and a genius."

"Kafka, art is a reflection of an artist's truest form of emotion; it is a way of communicating away from the eyes of the world, a language of the soul. If you practice too much, you will eventually lose your passion. What is art without emotions? What is art without a reason?"

"Are you saying I will never be able to reach their level?"

"There's no such thing as a ranking when it comes to the human desire to create; art is subjective, and so is the beauty of it. Being able to produce any form of art is still art, and no matter the nonsensical opinions of others, it is only you who deserves to make a judgment."

Kafka runs her hand through your hair, feeling the soft strands slip through her fingers as she observes your peacefully resting form.

"A struggle of artistic ideals, an impossibly fast pace of flowing ideas that disappear just as fast as their appearance, and a perfectionistic reality in which the succession of manifestations is humanly impossible."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "It's a shame you have fallen prey to it as well," Smoothly, she picked you up, cradling you protectively in her arms, where no harm can be done to you anymore.

"No matter," she continued, her voice a soothing lullaby to your ears. "Just as you once did for me in the past, I will come save your soul."

58 notes · View notes