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Instagram: cheri.png

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sad digital design girl instagram

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the laurel tree.

Mischievous Cupid drew his bow, sending a golden-dipped and dull lead arrow flying, each in opposite directions. The golden arrow struck the golden god, Apollo, in the back, hurling him toward his quill and lyre with a love-stricken frenzy. The other, a bent and jaded arrow, nicked a far-off nymph as it dove past her ear, instead piercing a rotting tree. Daphne, the bewildered naiad, easily drew the misplaced arrow from the decaying bark, absentmindedly tossing it on the ground.

The infatuated god soon delivered letters, poems, and compositions to her every break of dawn. Each met with a mocking giggle and a dismissive wave of her hand, Daphne repeatedly refused his advances with little grace, for an unknown source of strong aversion brewed in her chest with each confession of adoration the golden god uttered. Foolish, her sisters called her, and it was perceivably foolish to refuse the advances of a divine being, for nymphs and mortals occupied the same plane of fragility and transience. Alas, her impermanent soul could not conjure fields of roses and lilies, striking Apollo with resentful grief as he mourned a love the fates condemned. Yet, as the god of prophecy, a glimmer of hope he, himself illuminated, indicated hope was not lost.

On a winter day frigid with aggrieved heartache, Apollo, like a cat that had grown tired of playing with its meal, hopped, skipped, and flailed in chase of Daphne. Tirelessly running, the naiad sprinted for hours, tripping over twigs and branches amid her escape. Yet gasping for air and unable to go on, her breathless attempts at reasoning with Apollo could break past his gaze of scornful determination. With the water of the Peneios River now rushing between her toes, her father’s comforting embrace protects and transforms her into the fauna of a laurel tree. 

As the laureate poet thrives, the bark of the laurel tree is impaled once more by a dull arrow.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣆⠀⢿⢢⡀⠸⣱⡀⢀⢤⡶⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⢰⣤⡴⣴⠢⣧⣿⢤⣈⠺⡧⣺⠷⡟⠓⠃⣇⢧⣶⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢀⡀⢠⠽⣇⣹⠓⠽⡌⠓⠹⢶⢿⠀⢠⠁⡈⡶⠓⠋⠙⢻⡹⢓⡶⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⣬⣿⡎⠓⠒⠻⢄⡀⢳⡀⠀⢸⠈⢦⢸⠀⣸⢇⠀⢀⣠⡞⢉⣡⣴⣲⠄⠀ ⢠⣽⣈⣇⣴⣲⠖⠀⠉⠚⠳⣄⢸⠀⠈⣿⠊⡼⡦⢏⠉⠀⠉⢙⠮⢱⡆⠀⠀ ⠘⢎⡇⠘⢧⡀⣀⣤⣤⠄⠀⠈⢻⣇⢀⣽⠖⢣⣣⡤⠤⠒��⣝⣆⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠓⠢⠤⠽⢧⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠏⢹⡴⠋⠙⠒⠶⢖⢤⡀⢀⣤⣶⠗⠀ ⡢⢄⠐⠮⠷⢆⠀⠈⠙⠛⠛⠻⢶⣿⠀⣾⢀⣀⣀⣤⠤⡼⡓⢋⣿⠫⢕⡆⠀ ⠈⣻⠧⠤⠤⠤⠿⠗⠒⠒⠛⠶⣤⣿⣼⠛⠉⠙⠒⣶⡖⠳⡗⠺⡿⣤⣤⢄⡀ ⠰⣹⠀⠀⠀⢟⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⣿⡿⠀⠀⠀⠀⢧⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠮⡯⠀ ⠀⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⣿⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢹⣿⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣼⣿⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣤⠾⠛⣿⠙⠛⠶⢦⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

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I made Cirno Fumo on Notepad and display her on Command Prompt

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✫･ﾟ*.2006･ﾟ✫*.

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warmth.

Bellowing melodies spill from the gates of a familiar home. Knotting and binding vines sully the ivory marble, frankincense, and myrrh cough in spirals, a sermon beckons with chants and tomes.

The ignited flickers, but is it the moths we blame?

Like a loving embrace, it encaptures. My daily bread, my being for rapture. Yet the crucifix I grasp gives me splinters, longing for the embrace I must manufacture.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣾⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⣿⠛⣿⠛⣿⠻⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣤⣿⣤⣿⣤⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⢀⣴⠀⣿⣿⠟⢋⠉⠙⠛⣿⡇⢸⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢠⣿⣿⠀⣿⠇⠐⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⢸⣿⣿⡆⢀⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢸⣿⣿⠀⣿⣧⠈⠠⠀⠀⠃⣼⡇⢸⣿⣿⡇⠘⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠓⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢸⣿⣿⠀⣿⣿⣿⡶⠤⢶⣾⣿⡇⢸⣿⣿⡇⢸⣿⠿⣿⠿⣿⠿⡿⢿⣿⡇⠀ ⠀⢸⣿⣿⠀⣿⣿⡏⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⡇⢸⣿⣿⡇⢸⣿⣄⣿⣀⣿⣠⣧⣸⣿⡇⠀ ⠀⢸⣿⣿⠀⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⡇⢸⣿⣿⡇⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠀ ⠀⠈⠉⠉⠀⠉⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠁⠈⠉⠉⠁⠈⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠁⠀

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꧁★꧂

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*ೃ༄ੈ✩‧₊˚

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ೃ༄ੈ✩‧₊˚