idiosymphony

[idiosymphony]

shoutout to all the kids with good people as bad parents. the parents who were sympathetic, honest and kind to everyone until you were the next in line. the parents who loved the entire family except you. the parents who preached about acceptance, warmth and kindness, but never offered it to you. the parents who were understanding to friends, cousins or siblings, but not to their own children. the cognitive dissonance is surreal, but i promise it is not a reflection of your own worth. you deserve more.

[idiosymphony]

how to draw arms ? ? 

[idiosymphony]

how to draw arms ? ? 

[idiosymphony]

Resources For Writing Sketchy Topics

Medicine

A Study In Physical Injury

Comas

Medical Facts And Tips For Your Writing Needs

Broken Bones

Burns

Unconsciousness & Head Trauma

Blood Loss

Stab Wounds

Pain & Shock

All About Mechanical Injuries (Injuries Caused By Violence)

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Portraying a kleptomaniac.

Playing a character with cancer.

How to portray a power driven character.

Playing the manipulative character.

Portraying a character with borderline personality disorder.

Playing a character with Orthorexia Nervosa.

Writing a character who lost someone important.

Playing the bullies.

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How to portray a sociopath.

How to write characters with PTSD.

Playing characters with memory loss.

Playing a pyromaniac.

How to write a mute character.

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How to portray someone with dyslexia.

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How to play a serial killer.

Writing insane characters.

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Tips on writing a drug addict.

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Writing a character with schizophrenia.

Writing a character with Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Writing a character with depression.

Writing a character who suffers from night terrors.

Writing a character with paranoid personality disorder.

How to play a victim of rape.

How to play a mentally ill/insane character.

Writing a character who self-harms.

Writing a character who is high on amphetamines.

How to play the stalker.

How to portray a character high on cocaine.

Playing a character with ADHD.

How to play a sexual assault victim.

Writing a compulsive gambler.

Playing a character who is faking a disorder.

Playing a prisoner.

Portraying an emotionally detached character.

How to play a character with social anxiety.

Portraying a character who is high.

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Portraying a recovering alcoholic.

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How to play someone creepy.

Portraying sexually/emotionally abused characters.

Playing a character under the influence of drugs.

Playing a character who struggles with Bulimia.

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[idiosymphony]

少年の日の思い出：Das Nachtpfauenauge, by Hermann Hesse

Note: This story is translated from Japanese to English, but its original language is German. I could not find an English translation anywhere online, but I cannot speak German, so I referenced both the German and Japanese text to create this translation. Its German title means “The Peacock Moth” and the Japanese title means “Memories from the Days of Boyhood”. Although this story is very famous in Japan, as it features in a middle school textbook, it is little known elsewhere.

Translation is under the cut.

My guest, having returned from the evening walk, sat down close to me in my study. Daylight had begun to fade away. Outside the window, a faded lake stretched far into the distance, fringed sharply by a hilly shore. My youngest son had just bode me goodnight, and so we began to speak of our childhood memories. 

“Ever since I had my children, my childhood habits and interests have come back to me. In fact, for a year now I’ve been collecting butterflies again. Shall I show you?” I said. 

And my guest asked to see, so I went to fetch my light cardboard box that held my collection. Opening the first box, I finally noticed how completely dark it was. I took my lamp and struck a match. The outside scenery became shrouded in darkness, the entire window closed off into the opaque blue of the night. 

My butterflies glittered brightly in the box, illuminated by the bright light of the lamp. We sat hunched over it, gazing at the beautiful shapes and brilliant dark colours, naming the butterflies. 

“This is the Yellow Bands Underwing, Fulminea in Latin. It’s quite rare around here.” I said. 

My friend carefully took out one of the butterflies from the box, without removing its pin, and looked at the back of its wings. 

“How odd. Nothing arouses memories of my childhood quite as strongly as the sight of butterflies. When I was a young boy, I was a passionate collector.” He said. 

And he pinned the butterfly back to where it was, and said, “I’ve seen enough.” 

He spoke quickly, as if the memory was unpleasant for him. After I had swiftly put back the box and returned, he gave me a faint smile and requested a cigarette from me. 

“Take no offense,” he then said, “although did not give your collection a proper look. When I was a child, I also collected butterflies, but unfortunately I have tarnished those memories through my own fault. Really, it’s almost too embarrassing to speak of, but let me tell you this story.” 

***

When I was around eight or nine years of age, I began collecting butterflies. At first, I was not particularly passionate, but simply did it because it was popular. However, on the second summer when I was around ten years old, I had become completely captivated by this game. 

I poured all my heart into this game, putting off everything else around me. It had gotten to a point where everyone often thought to make me stop. When going out to catch butterflies, I was deaf to the clock in the tower chiming, be it schooltime or lunchtime. During vacations, I often trotted around from early morning till night without coming home to eat, bringing with me only a slice of bread in my botanical specimen bag. 

Even now, when I look at beautiful butterflies, I feel that same passion deeply within me. When this happens, for a split second I am gripped by that indescribable, ravenous, enthralling feeling that only a child can experience. It’s that feeling I had as a boy, when I first snuck up to a yellow swallowtail. 

And during those times, I immediately recall the numerous moments in my youth. The scorching afternoons in the strong-scented, dry wilderness. The cool mornings in the garden, the mystical evenings on the edge of the forest. I would lie in wait with my net, like a man searching for treasure. 

And when I found a beautiful butterfly⁠—it didn’t matter if it wasn’t particularly rare⁠—perched on a flower in the sunshine, its wings rising and falling with its breaths, the joy of capturing it would almost suffocate me. As I crept up to it gradually, making out each shining speck of colour, each crystal-clear feather veins, each fine auburn hairs on its antennae, I could barely contain my nervousness and delight. I did not often feel such mixture of subtle joy and intense desire. 

As my parents did not give me sophisticated equipment, I had to keep my collection in an old, crumpled cardboard box. I would cut out a piece of cork from a wine stopper, and paste it to the bottom of it. There, I would stick my pins into it. Between the crushed edges of this box, I kept my treasures. 

At first, I would often happily show my collections to my friends. But the others would have wooden boxes with glass lids, cages with green gauze pasted onto them, and other such luxurious items. And so I was unable to boast about my childish equipment. On the contrary, even if I had a significant and reputable finding or catch, I would keep it a secret and only show it to my younger sisters. 

One time, I caught a Freyer’s Purple Emperor, which was rare around where we lived. I spread its wings to display it, and once it dried, I was so pleased with myself that I decided to show it only to the boy next door. 

This boy was a teacher’s son, who lived across the courtyard. He possessed the vice of faultlessness, which was twice as off-putting for a child. Although his collection was small and meager, its neatness and precise care made each one appear to be a single gem. What’s more, he was familiar with the extremely difficult and rare technique of using animal glue to patch together damaged or broken wings. 

In any case, he was a model boy by all counts. And due to this, I envied, admired and despised him. 

I showed this boy my Freyer’s Purple Emperor. He expertly appraised it, acknowledged its rarity, and priced it at about 20 Pfennig. However, he then began to find fault, complaining about the way I had spread its wings, how its right antenna was bent, how its left antenna was stretched out. And on top of that, he correctly discovered the glaring flaw of two missing legs. 

Although I did not think much of these shortcomings, the merciless critique greatly wounded the joy I had for my catch. And so I never again showed him my catches. 

Two years had passed, and we had become older boys, but my passion was still at its climax. Around then, rumors spread that Emil next door had hatched a Peacock Moth from its chrysalis. Right now, if I were to hear that an acquaintance had inherited a million marks, or if a lost book from Livy had been found, I would not be as excited as I was then. 

Not one of my friends had caught a Peacock Moth as of yet. I had only seen it once, in an old book of butterflies I owned. Out of the ones I had known the name of but didn’t have in my box, there was nothing else I had wanted as fervently as the Peacock Moth. Over and over again, I gazed at its illustration in my book. 

One friend told me this: When the amber butterfly is perched on a tree bark or a rock, and a bird or another threat attempts to attack it, the butterfly would unfold its blackish front feathers and show off its beautiful back feathers. But because those large shining splotches present a very strange and unexpected appearance, the bird is struck by fear and ceases to engage with it. 

Hearing that Emil was in possession of this mysterious butterfly, I became overwhelmed with excitement and could not wait until I could see it. After lunch, when I was allowed out, I immediately hopped the courtyard and headed into the neighbor’s house. I went up to the fourth storey, and the teacher’s son had his own room, albeit small. There’s no telling how jealous I was. 

While making my journey, I did not meet anyone. I arrived upstairs and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Emil was not home. I pulled the door handle, and noticed the entrance was unlocked. 

I entered, wanting to at least see that butterfly. And I immediately picked up the two large boxes that Emil kept his collection in. I couldn’t find it in either box, but I was thinking perhaps it was still on the setting block. 

And there it was. Its velvet amber wings spread out with thin paper, the Peacock Moth was pinned onto the setting block. I leaned over it, poring closely over the reddish-brown hairy antennae, the elegant edges of its wings with an indescribable color, the wool-like hairs on the inside edges of its back wings. Unfortunately, I could not see its famous splotches. It was hidden underneath the thin piece of paper. 

Heart thrumming in my chest, I lost to the temptation of wanting to remove the piece of paper and pulled out the pin. And the four splotches, large and mysterious, much more beautiful and brilliant than the one in my book, stared at me. 

Looking at it, I was overcome with an irresistible desire to obtain this treasure. And for the first time in my life, I committed an act of theft. 

I pulled the clip gently. The butterfly was already dry, and so it did not lose its shape. I placed it in my palm and took it out of Emil’s room. At that moment, I felt nothing but great satisfaction. 

Hiding the butterfly in my right hand, I went down the stairs. Immediately after, I heard someone heading up towards me. At that moment, my conscience awakened. I suddenly realized that I was a thief, a despicable sort. 

At the same time, I was struck with a horrific anxiety that someone may discover me. I instinctively hid my hand into my shirt pocket, with the catch still inside. I continued to walk, but my body shook with a cold feeling that I had done something most appalling and shameful. 

I crossed paths with the maid heading upstairs, frightened out of my skin. My heart pounded. Sweat gathered at my forehead. I completely lost my composure. Terrified of myself, I stood by the house’s entrance. 

Immediately, I understood that I could not, and should not keep holding onto this butterfly. I must return it to where it was, and if I could, pretend that nothing had ever happened. 

Though I intensely feared bumping into someone and being discovered, I hurriedly retraced my steps and ran back upstairs. A minute later, I was standing in Emil’s room again. I removed my hand from my pocket, placing the butterfly on the table. 

Without even taking a closer look, I already understood what misfortune had taken place. I was pushed to the verge of tears. The Peacock Moth had been crushed. One forewing and one antenna was missing, and when I cautiously pulled the broken wing out of my pocket, I found it torn to pieces, beyond mending. 

The sight of the beautiful, rare butterfly I had destroyed tormented my heart more than the feeling of theft. I saw the delicate amber wing dust sticking to my fingers, and the torn wing lying close by. I would have happily given up any possession or passion, if it meant I could make it whole once more. 

I went home sad, and sat in our small garden until evening, until at last I gathered up the courage to tell my mother everything. My mother reacted with shock and sadness, but seemed to feel that making this confession caused me to suffer more than any punishment. 

“You must go over to Emil’s,” she said firmly, “and tell him so yourself. You may offer him to pick something out from your possessions, to make up for it. And you must ask for his forgiveness.” 

If it had been anyone but that model boy, I would have immediately felt inclined to do so. I had a definitive feeling in advance that he would not understand me, nor attempt to believe me. It eventually became night, but I did not feel like going over. My mother found me in the courtyard and whispered to me, “It has to be today. Now, go.” 

And so, I went over, and asked for Emil. He came out and told me that someone had ruined his Peacock Moth, and that he didn’t know whether a bad guy or a cat had done it. I asked him to show me the butterfly. We went up, he lit the candle, and I saw the ruined butterfly on the setting block. I saw the marks of the efforts Emil had made to restore it, but there was no mending that. The antenna was indeed still missing. 

Now, I said it was me who did it, and attempted to elaborate and explain. Emil did not rail or yell at me, but instead clicked his tongue lowly and looked at me silently for a while. And then, he said: “I see, I see. So that’s how you are.” 

I told him I’d give him all my toys, but he still held his icy posture and looked at me in contempt. And so I told him he could have all the butterflies in my collection. However, he said: “No, thank you. I already know all of your collection. And today I got to see how you handle butterflies.”  

At that moment, I came very close to leaping at his throat. There was nothing that could be done anymore. It was already decided that I was a scoundrel, and Emil stood in front of me coldly, as if to represent the very laws of the world, shielded by justice, disparaging me. He did not even insult me. He only gazed at me in contempt. 

That’s when I realized for the first time, once something had happened, it could no longer be atoned for. I left, and was glad that my mother did not pry but left me alone after a kiss. “Go to bed,” she told me. It was quite late for me. But before I did so, I quietly went to the dining room and fetched my large amber cardboard box. I put it on my bed, opening it up in the darkness. And then I took out the butterflies one by one, and crushed them to dust with my fingers. 

[idiosymphony]

Muscle Memory is Not Hereditary

Arrhythmia. You have never known

How seventy-two beats per minute 

Feels. You only know red, flowing 

Through you thick as kin. Red,

The colour of warmth. Of hurt. To

You, there is little to distinguish

Between the two. It is not up to you

To decide which you deserve.

It never was.

Goodbyes bleed blue. Midnight 

Veins snake up your arm. You learn

That heat is not the only way to burn

Someone. You exhale, and the crystals

Turn to mist in your mouth. You look

Down, eager to know if your blood

Looks like his eyes. Red and red make

Blue. Nothing had been final until now.

Blue burns hotter.

[idiosymphony]

You may have told me you hate me,

And yet I can’t help chasing you to give you 

That jacket you forgot at my house

I am still me, the same me that you held

As I lay asleep on your chest

You once stroked my hair and noticed

I’m still wearing the shirt your mother bought

For us to be a matching pair

You are embarrassed, when we hold hands outside

And yet you won’t slap my hand away

I was wrong, so were you

We hurt and screamed and bled out 

Onto the game cartridges we swapped

Stained our gel pen drawings

I was sorry and that did not matter

Your display name is an inside joke

That I will never understand

I wonder if you recall our last sleepover

And the liminality of the sitting room

With the mattresses spread out

I still have yet to encounter

A friendship like we once had.

[idiosymphony]

You would always plead me to take you to the sea. You would let the foam lap at your fingers, reaching out at the gentle pull of the tide. You would dig your fingers into the sand, shaping the world with your two hands. Delicate and transparent, you smiled as if you had just opened a parcel and found a pocket-sized sun inside. 

The seaside is perfect for two. 

I can see the droplets glisten, as they slide off your porcelain skin. You roll up the hems of your trousers, entering the water two steps at once. I can only laugh, as you scrunch your face and exclaim that it is too cold. I step in after you without thinking, and do the exact same.

Stricken, you would long to visit the sea once more. Even as consumption eroded your limbs, you would insist on leaving the mansion to run your hand through the sand once more. The bloodstained sheets, the postcards with oceans and lakes painted on, the smallest seas residing in your eyes. 

All of it, every bit of it, was you. 

On the day of your funeral, it was raining. As if the sky took pity and created several oceans just for you. I left my umbrella closed, as I took my place among the crowds dressed in black. Your voice carried through the heavy air, urging me to come and see you at the sea. 

The seaside is lonely for one. 

Without a means to set sail, the sea marks the end point. I beat my clenched fists against the sand, sending ripples across the water. You are unreachable, your shadow disappearing past the other side of the sea. Your laugh is drowned out by the relentless rain, pattering like scattered pearls. 

The ocean reminds me of how fragile we both are. The vastness consumes my heart, waves roaring and clambering onto the grey rocks. I realize why you were drawn to it, staring into the waters to try and find remnants of you. 

My reflection reaches out to me. I blink, allowing two oceans to slide down my cheeks. 

[idiosymphony]

You are dipping your paintbrush inside the glass jar full of water, watching it turn a murky green. And there’s your friend, several seasons ahead of you, prodding at your painting and telling you that it’s not a pencil drawing, you can’t just outline it all in black. And you know you can if you wanted to but you listen anyway, as if your hands are what’s wrong with your art. 

The primary emotion you are creating with, is fear. You learn that being slightly good at something feels more painful than being awful at something. It’s all too watery and then the paint is skidding across the paper and it’s blending with the wash and you have to retrace your steps. You aren’t meant to do that either and no tutorial has ever endorsed the way you do things. There is no right answer but you are wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Your saturated paintbrush slides across the paper, and you narrowly avoid ripping a hole right in the middle of the page. Searching for your own right answer is something only granted to those who don’t keep filling in every single blank with the wrong answer. And you want to cry out and be seen and pretend that you’re doing everything wrong on purpose, that everything will fall into place when it’s all over and done. 

[idiosymphony]

—Do you think they can see my two curled horns, sister?

—It’s okay, nobody will suspect a thing. 

—Sister, it hurts when they grab me like that.

—Be quiet and keep that smile on your face. There are no more younglings after you.

I don’t know which way is home. The meadow grass is itchy against my legs. I will never be a human child, unless I keep walking. I want to turn back. I want to cut holes in all my hoods to let my horns poke out. Something does not feel right about this field. There’s empty pizza boxes and contraceptives scattered around, and somebody warns us about who comes here after dark. We all yelp in unison, and I make the futile attempt to suggest returning home. It is not too late for us to pile onto a black recliner and sort through the Nintendo games we’ve accumulated over many Christmases. My voice is several frequencies too low for anybody to hear. We wade through the pale growths, and I crush a nettle beneath my foot. 

I’m sitting across the loudest table in the class and the mouths are doubling in number and none of them are closed. They notice it hurts my ears and make sure to do it again. I am a part of entertainment as long as I do not cry or rage. The girl in the corner considers writing my name on an anonymous survey. She scribbles it out. Sister was right and nobody knows who I am, but they know I am not them. And not even sister would tell me what I truly am. She does not know, and neither do I. And so I become an amalgamation of syllables and ripped copybooks and the half-eaten yoghurt cups. The times tables test and the teacher in the corner and the stars on the wall tell me what I am. I am a patchwork of assigned values and none of it has been decided by me. I am a pleasure to have as a statue and a nuisance to have as a playmate. 

They have pushed me into a pitfall designed to accommodate the shape of my body. There is dirt in my fingernails and my mouth and my trachea. I try to climb out but my horns are lodged into the soil. There are insects and plucked grass raining down on me. A monster’s diet is different from a human’s. I clench my teeth and kick and pull. My horns are chipped and my hood is torn and I am just like a human child. I have never been more unwelcome among them. WE DID NOT ASK FOR THIS, they chant. YOU ARE A MONSTER. WE WANT YOU TO STAY AS ONE. 

Sister, I still do not know what I am. But I know that if I cut my skin open, ferns will grow across the diameter.

[idiosymphony]

They had hailed you as a hero.

You were a patriot, ready to lay down your life.

There is nothing more honourable than that.

They do not know your disdain,

For the spilled blood. Enough to fill

All the glasses in their banquet hall. 

They do not know what the agonal breathing

Of a dying comrade sounds like.

You do not know how many times you have lied,

Because you don’t tell someone

They’ll never see their wife and children again.

In their dying breaths, they do not call out

The names of their generals or kings.

They scream for their mothers, their fathers 

Tearing a hole in their family tree.

Both friend and foe bleed in the same crimson,

As they desperately try to carve their names

In history.

They have lost their dignity, their futures.

They forget that the man in front of them

Had also once been cradled and rocked to sleep.

They only ask to not be forgotten,

To have their ashes shielded 

From the unforgiving winds.

The names of battles, the ribboned badges,

Those do not matter to you.

Your comrades reside behind your eyelids,

And the men you have slain in your ears.

That is what you will remember forever.

It is your punishment and burden,

To be carried on your weary back

While treaties are signed 

with the blood of the defeated.

A minister thanks you for your service,

As if he had not signed into law

That those escaping conscription

Would be charged with high treason.

You are invited to speak to the masses,

And there is nothing more you want to do

Than scream,

About the futility of war, the names of those

Who never opened their wives’ letters.

Your throat burns with the thousand truths

That will never leave the battlefield.

You will cling onto life, your tenacity

Driven by your bitter hatred for suffering.

They gave me a hero’s welcome.

They clapped and feasted in blissful ignorance,

Expressing their pride for my loyal servitude.

They do not know my hatred

Of holding a bloodstained sword

That was once only unsheathed annually. 

They do not know my hatred

Of lying to a dying comrade

While holding their roughened hands

That once worked the land and roasted fowl.

They do not know my utter despair

As I tell them to keep looking at my eyes,

So that they do not see their torso

Almost split clean in half.

I could only brush their eyelids closed,

And promise to take home their locket 

So that a piece of them may remain

In history.

I resent that the name of the man

Who would feed his own rations to a kitten

And kiss a photo of his family goodnight

Will soon be forgotten.

My hands are heavy, as I carry the memories

Of those who couldn’t keep their promises.

Kid, I don’t even remember

What this blue ribbon stands for.

But I’ll always remember 

What a soldier from the other side told me.

Our nursery rhymes share the same melodies,

And we both tell our children stories

To keep them from playing outside too late.

They will never name names from the other side

So that we will never question

Why we are throwing away our humanity

For the sake of those who move us around

A map, spread out on a wooden table

Chess pieces standing in for a thousand of us.

They want young fellows to hear my stories now,

So that they can do to you what they did to me.

And I’ll scream,

That I wish to rip their throats out

So they may never lie to earnest souls again,

Who want nothing more than to prove their worth

Not knowing they will forget how to cry.

I’ll hang onto this wretched life

Until I can scream no more.

[idiosymphony]

You don’t know when the world turned monochrome. 

You can't remember how many shades of blue the ocean was.

You don’t know when you started to become conscious of your breathing.

All you know is that it is your fault.

You don’t ask why you are hurting, or what you have done to deserve it.

You need a reason to cry, and you will grip it until your fingers bleed.

Everything is slipping past your grasp.

I am sorry, you want to say. 

I am sorry for the missed messages,

For the time I wasted because of my careless mistake,

For not being able to pull the shard out of my heart

Because the glass is the colour of your eyes.

You overperform rather than underperform.

If you are so unloveable beyond repair,

The least you can do is entertain. 

You will continue to lie, that you deserve to be hurt.

[idiosymphony]

Our footsteps match our heartbeats, as we step over the pavement flowers.

You chuckle at somebody’s attempt at blackout poetry on a street sign,

Red spray paint bleeding into the warning letters.

Hopping onto a stone wall, you stare at the top of my head,

Extending your arms like the wings of an aircraft.

I’m kicking a pebble as far as it will go.

My lace springs free on the usual foot.

The sun sinks back into the sea, and everything is tinted 

With a warmth that best describes your presence.

My shadow leans against yours, as I tie my shoe.

Each day’s end caresses your cheek,

And your smile is what lights up the sky at night.

- a suburban love

[idiosymphony]

Your tongue, rough as sandpaper, could surely strike a match alight. But when you speak to me, you roll your words around your mouth until all the edges are smoothed. You would break the dragon’s back for me, but you instead keep watch as I reach to pet it. Your flames are searingly hot, enough to burn you from the inside out. But you warm me gently as you lean against me, your eyelids hanging heavy with sleep.

- a love letter of fire and ice

[idiosymphony]

Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait Through Letters

[idiosymphony]

They have carved marble in your honour And the children circle around it playfully Placing flower crowns onto your smooth hands But you continue to die.

idiosymphony

[idiosymphony]

you die in every iteration of the tale. every letter about you is printed in blood.

the reflection in your eyes slowly dims, crimson trailing off your outstretched fingers. you are smiling this time.

since when had this been decided? you don’t know where the path for your inevitable fate started to unfold. you find yourself situated in between the civilians and the threat to their safety.

people around you try to prolong it, burning your draft letters and ushering you home before dusk. they insist you spend the days working the land and nights beside fireplaces.

but nothing can change the shape of your soul. you, self-sacrificial, reach out to wipe the tears of a crying child. you remember what it’s like, to be young and innocent. to have the unyielding belief that the world is, and should be, fair and kind to all.

and you will die, and die, and die.

you do not know your fate, your wide grin casting a light over the overcast sky. you are not fearless, but act in spite of the heavy dread. you do not hesitate, as you push yourself off the cliff along with the enemy soldier.

you are born to die, to leave the marks of your bloodied sword carved into a boulder. to leave the world with red clouding your vision.