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New Order | True Faith

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          scrawlings : sheet fourteen

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reminder to self: > reblog old meta from the other blog that still applies to current portrayal! > rewrite what doesn’t / what needs to be rewritten; > write with this boy.

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I have dreamed and dreamed myself to life / And back again

Joan Murray, from “Ascetic: Time Misplaced,” Drafts, Fragments, and Poems (via lifeinpoetry)

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Do not worry / if you find nothing. This is what I tell myself. / Do not / worry. The search / alone is beautiful.

Omar Sakr, from “How to endure the final hours,” The Lost Arabs (via lifeinpoetry)

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‹ ...  ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴠᴇꜱꜱᴇʟ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴇ:                        a shapeshifting beast.

independent fandomless oc, as written by nox.    ( promo credit! )

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seasonal aesthetics. repost, don’t reblog!

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑.    a chill right down to the bones.   tobogganing.   teeth chattering.   sleeping all day.   sitting by the fireplace.   spending time with family.    layered clothing.    seeing another’s breath.    loving the cold.   a state of inactivity.    cold hands.   blistering winds shaking the closed windows.    a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them.   cable knit socks.   a bitter remark.   a log cabin in the middle of nowhere.   hating the cold.  full-length windows to peer out of.  pale skin.   deep conversations.  watching the snow fall.   sharp edges.   hot cocoa.   smelling every candle in the store.   a wild snow storm.   melancholy. lighting candles around the bathtub.   snow globes.   expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets.   liking, but not loving something or someone.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost.  paris in the spring.  birds chirping. the art of growing.  a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder.  a tornado in the valley.  smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks.  making promises.  trying something new.  hugs when you need them most.     a bee sting.      sitting on the steps of the met.      coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm.  picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun.   that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym/training at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself.  rain boots.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑.       lanterns lit around a campfire.   seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again and again. melting ice cream. the warmth of sun rays upon skin. fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end.  beach days.       the lone blow-up floaty left in the pool.       drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else.  music blasting at 3am,     loud and proud.     palms trees on sunset boulevard.     longer days and shorter nights.  wanderlust.   nights spent staring at the stars.   sandcastles.   road trips.   blood orange sunsets.   leaving the laundry to hang outside.  flowers in bloom.  sneaking out of your room late at night.  pure contentment.  barefoot in the sand.    the street lights coming on.    the sound of the ocean in a seashell.   freshly squeezed lemonade.  loose clothing.  a cannonball into the pool.  sunflowers. the hazy pink before dusk.   relaxation.

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋.   the leaves changing colors.  a heavy backpack. the smell of old books.  eating until you’re stuffed.  deep, dark woods.    the silence in loudness ( the loudness in silence ).   abandoned houses.    ripped jeans. crunching leaves beneath feet.  feeling like you’ve been somewhere before.  sitting at a bay window. having endless amount of work.   charcoal drawings.  screaming into a pillow as loud as you can.    pumpkin patches. creaky floorboards.   accepting that some things do have to change.   museums.     small talk.    being ignored.  procrastinating.   a door slamming shut.   going to bed early.   baking pies.   the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely and terribly lost.  a twig snapping. crisp, cool days.  belly laughter after crying.  converse. foggy mornings at the shoreline.  writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day.

tagged: absolutely no one, i just stole it from my other blog. tagging: whoever wants to do this, just take it from me. do it. it’s yours!

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Can’t they see

I am assembling debris from my survivable catastrophe ready to build a legend.

— Omar Sakr, from “Great Waters Keep Moving Us,” The Lost Arabs

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“ shame means you’re guilty , like the rest of us . ”

war of foxes, richard siken // @faemoriaaccepting.

HE HAS SEEN CREATURES BEFORE---they aren’t as rare as most of the mundane folk seem to readily believe, nor as common as to make the occurrence of meeting one unimpressive, but laqueus presumes that the blood that runs in his own veins, electricity-charged as it is, eases him into their company. still, when she speaks of shame, his head tilts like that of a curious stray, silver eyes upon the feathered woman, mannerisms less human and more cat-like than any mundane man’s.

she is a rare sight, by all means, but he doesn’t mind. he barely seems rattled.

what seems more pressing is that she’s found him in a strange situation, but the body by his feet won’t get any deader. it had been a clean job, a well-aimed bullet to the brain, caliber small enough to avoid unneeded gore, and there’s little blood & no damning evidence upon himself outside the circumstances of their placement; it’s a cold morning, it’s a lonely alleyway, and there are none other than the three of them in sight, perhaps aside the rats that search the nearby garbage.  

he should feel ashamed, is what she means, or rather, is what he presumes she means. the silencer on his gun should feel heavy, but he can’t muster the energy for dramatics; he’s a killer, designed as such, and there’s little point in denying what is obvious. 

“i wouldn’t say i feel ashamed, no,” he begins, voice far too soft as he takes the sound suppressor off of the muzzle of his gun and slips it back into its holster inside his coat. silencer stored away along with the gun, he sighs as he slides his hands back into his pockets. “but i am guilty. there’s little point in denying when there are witnesses, yes?”

silence falls between them, the lull of the early morning always putting him at deceptive ease; somehow, he doubts the feathered person would bother with the cops but the option doesn’t seem one that he should discard. it’d be a headache to cover up his trails, but nothing he hasn’t been equipped to deal. gaze meeting the corpse’s prone form, he lets out a soft hum before looking back at toothiana. 

in his eyes, there’s the eerie calm of a man who bears no crimes.

“it simply is what it is. i’d say that at very least, my dirty hands bear a clean mind.”

---he briefly wonders what the weight of the opposite feels like, but not once has he wished death upon another the way his clients have; funny, how tools remain tools even at a baseline level at times. 

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“ i’ve seen your true face. ”

war of foxes, richard siken // @cynocephaliiaccepting.

THERE’S SOMETHING LOST in his eyes when armasi speaks of true faces, of his true face; something like confusion, perhaps, like uncertainty, but bleaker, vaguer, like all the tones of winter he had been painted & desgined in: how did she know his truth, when he had lost himself in all his acts, all the roles he had to play to be the sharpest tool of the box? perhaps he had given himself away during their meetings, ever so frequent, had shown more of himself than he had initially realized.

but he can’t tell, actually. being a person, it seems, has never been laqueus’s forte, but that is something they hold in common. she, half-god, half-creature, and he, a shapeshifting thing that sheds away all skins he’s worn and left behind. 

he mulls over it and wonders: one of the people he’s been, one of the people he’s killed. perhaps one of them held his true face, but if that had been the case… was it truly his? his mind wanders, too free for his own good in the break of dawn. it’s early enough he can taste the morning dew on the back of his nostrils, where the mouth meets the nose, and he finally breaks from his reverie, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

he’s losing objectivity. 

it should be less comfortable than it is when around her.  

“HAVE YOU…?” there’s a touch of childlike curiosity in his words, hidden behind his usual poise. he draws those silver eyes away from her, looks at his leather gloves; the motion is simple, but it gives the time he needs to recompose himself. the lack of eye contact has never been great reprieve to him, but the unknown she speaks of shakes something in his core, something impalpable. adjusting the gloves on the calli of his hands, he only looks back when he knows he won’t falter.

his eyes meet armasi’s own and he looks far more earnest during that singular moment than any killer should have the right to.

“and, pray tell… how does it look? how do i look, wearing it?”

he hopes it doesn’t look like the frightened boy of thirty years past, or the jaded, soft-minded teen he once was. he smiles, seemingly entertained by this once-frightening concept, and then there’s that untouchable thing inside him, trying to have him yearn for her answer, grasp it and consume it like the life-starved ruin he is. 

to have a true face means being a person, he presumes, and to be a person, to not be a tool—

now, how impressive would that be?

(dolens once said curiosity would kill him; he assumes that’s not such a farfetched claim, if only by how he feels right then.)

“most important of all, wolfin: is it any better than the masks?”

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rp sentence starters using lines from richard siken’s work , war of the foxes.  

“ what’s there to be faithful to? ” “ i have my body and you have yours. ” “ but go ahead, yell at yourself. ” “ some people don’t understand anything. ” “ let’s kill something. ” “ what does a man want? ” “ why take more than we need? ” “ you’d break your heart to make it bigger. ” “ i thought of myself as a city. ” “ will you defend yourself? ” “ i prefer to blame others, it’s easier. ” “ it helps to have an anchor. ” “ we throw ourselves into the future. ” “ what is a ghost? ” “ i glued my head back on. ” “ sooner or later they go to ground and rot. ” “ everyone runs the risk of being swallowed up. ” “ the bodies decompose eventually. ” “ you can try, but we will not remain unscathed. ” “ abandon your will and let the world have its way with you. ” “ when you have nothing to say, set something on fire. ” “ i gave shape to my fears and made excuses. ” “ something’s not right about what i’m doing but i’m still doing it. ” “ the enormity of my desire disgusts me. ” “ want something to chase you? run. ” “ take a body, maybe your own, and dump it gently. ” “ take only what you need. ” “ never finish a war without starting another. ” “ i’ve seen your true face. ” “ if you were walking away, keep walking. ” “ everyone needs a place. ” “ why do anything at all? ” “ who gets to measure the distance between experience and its representation? ” “ everything is a metaphor for itself. ” “ the night sky is vast and wide. ” “ i owe myself nothing. ” “ i like dead things, they cannot hurt me. ” “ there’s not enough room for us to be ourselves. ” “ my body is a graveyard. ” “ everyone wants a battlefield. ” “ people like to think war means something. ” “ love might be the wrong word. ” “ let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other. ” “ all stories are the wrong story if you’re impatient. ” “ some say god is where we put our sorrow. ” “ in the wrong light anyone can look like darkness. ” “ some people like to hear the sound of their own voice. ” “ ____ took the gods and made them human. ” “ i am afraid. ” “ i put my sadness in a box. ” “ i think that you might like it here. ” “ i tell you these things because i love you. ” “ everything casts a shadow. ” “ i surrender my desire to be healed. ” “ shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us. ” “ maybe it’s better if my opponent wins. ” “ you want it to mean something. ” “ you are what you cover up.”  “ one wonders why a story like this exists. ”  “ i want to give you more but not everything. you don’t need everything. ”  “ someone has to leave first. ”

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— lost and found and lost again. But here, in this world, hungry to defy.

— Teva Harrison, from “A Pocketful of Stones,” Not One of These Poems Is About You

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i need new faceclaims for laq, but as it is (and given the fact i am hilariously bad at finding good faceclaims), i’ll keep the old ones even if they don’t quiiiite feel right. 

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laq?

@cynocephalii

“wolfin.”

there’s the vaguest hint of a smile upon his lips. FAMILIARITY; such a rare thing for him to be bestowed with, these days. between his dead and his living, the lines have been blurred much too often. 

then again, it’s never been any other way.

“i haven’t changed aliases yet, so i’d wager that’s still me, yes.” a pause, he looks curious---like a stray cat caught by the charm of a bird, perhaps something more innocuous; armasi is no bird and the cat metaphor feels irresponsible, given... everything.  

“and you? have you changed?”

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@cynocephalii, continued from here.

“i said i didn’t plan on it, i didn’t say i didn’t want to.” 

the soft-edged smile that comes to his lips is natural as well, the way she laughs caushing him no reflex to coil within himself, seek self-defense, seek refuge. there had been no forethought put into the trip that brought him here. his feet led him to the bar they now sat in, to her company. it’s good his feet seem to know what is good for him, since so far he has had no complaints of wolfin armasi’s company. it’s been one of the better partnerships he’s entertained in the past few years.

she admits she has missed him and it has those steel-gray eyes linger on her for a moment, as if curious. he is, however subtle the feeling is. she nudges him and the touch is stored it in a certain place of his mind, without conscious effort on his part. he falters an unnecessary beat before he replies, almost unable to understand himself. “--i missed you too, armasi.” it’s true, despite the momentary hesitance. “i suppose that’s the reason why i am here, planned or not.” besides, it has not been such a great detour from his next mission’s location, and with his schedule being as it is, he could lend himself the time.

“how have you been?”

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power // bastille

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I am badlands, red dust, war-torn. / I am torn. I am torn.

Logan February, from “Self-Portrait as Damaged Goods,” published in The Shallow Ends (via lifeinpoetry)