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[marshmellodragon]

Reality is a video game.

A few days ago, I was just wandering around my college after class with a friend and it was a sunny day. You know, one of those days when the sun shines over your head after a long winter, it’s windy and warm but still a bit cold and people are out and about, having iced drinks, laughing, giggling and chatting.

Yeah. That day.

Me and my friend finished talking about some stupid assignment and we sat down at the bench near the college garden, under the shadow of a tree. The environment, as you can tell, was something I was noticing particularly in detail that day.

I turned to my friend and said,

“Woah there’s so many people here today, it kinda looks like a video game in this weather.”

“Really?” She kind of just smiled and glanced around, “I guess so, I mean I don’t play games so I can’t tell?”

“Yeah it seems like so many NPCs are out today by the looks of it. Not like in a rude way, it genuinely just looks like a video game environment. Maybe it’s the lighting? Anyways in games you can’t talk to NPCs much.”

She tilted her head for a second,

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Bad of course. I mean, talking to the characters in those games that look so interesting would be fun but I guess making so many actual characters with animations, dialogues and rigging would be super difficult.”

“Hmmm.”

“What?”

“What about now?”

“What do you mean?”

She pointed at the garden behind our park bench,

“Didn’t you say this looks like a video game?”

“Yeah?”

“Just to talk to everyone. NPCs, so many too. They also have animations, riggings or whatever else you said.”

I turned my head to look at the garden full of different kinds of people in awe for a second and in that moment, I realised that this was it. A game so diverse and well thought out. Every character interactive, everything touchable, every decision leading to a different ending.

A game where you could do anything and yet everything mattered.

In that moment, all of a sudden reality seemed so lovely.

“Oh.”

[marshmellodragon]

I am sick to my stomach even though I wrote that myself.

‘When God Sends Me To Hell I Want Him To Hesitate’ by marshmello_dragon [Ao3]

[marshmellodragon]

If I die without experiencing love like this then what even was the point.

i said 'explain physics to me like youre in love with me' and after a while of quiet he went 'everything sings'. so i get it now

[marshmellodragon]

It’s 12:02 AM right now. It’s the new year, new day, new everything.

I can hear music blasting outside, people yelling ‘Happy New Year!!’ and fireworks being released. It’s all muffled to me because my windows are closed.

My phone’s buzzing from the notifications of my close friends putting up stories on Instagram about their new year parties.

My dog is sitting beside me, looking for warmth as he is scared of the fireworks. I happily hug him back.

But in the end, I was alone, was I not?

My heart aches with every firework, my breaths hitch with every sob I let out and my fingers don’t dance with the music’s beats.

As I sit on my sofa to write this, dim lights shining above my head, I come to the horrible realisation that I am truly alone.

-Written by: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

“He pointed his finger and dared to curse god, not realising he was facing the wrong way.”

-Not from a book but from a teenage YouTuber’s response video to a hate group [Faline San]

[marshmellodragon]

[marshmellodragon]

I think I’ll never find love.

I think I’ll never find love.

Not because I think I am not pretty enough nor because of my personality.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen or even felt the kind of love I imagine to be love.

I’ve dated people but no, not that kind of love.

I don’t think I’ll ever look into someone’s eyes and have zero doubts about them loving me back. Loving me the same way I love them.

I’ve loved people before but it never truly feels returned so I don’t think I’ve fully loved someone. Because I think true love won’t have doubtful bumps. I myself have doubts so I won’t be blaming the world for me not being able to find my true love.

I don’t think I’ll ever find someone who’ll look at me and feel that every inch of my body, every breath I take or every sound I make is loveable.

Of course it seems immature, love always has its ups and downs. I believe those are just fine, what matters is what the lover would do afterwards. Would they go back to loving me the same way after a fight? Or would they have doubts creeping away through their brain like roots in soil?

So I don’t think I’ll find someone.

Someone to stare into my eyes and willingly keep staring. Willingly keep liking me. Being with me on purpose.

Not falling in love with me but walking into it with arms and eyes wide open.

All these years I used to run after love like it was a drug and I’d know, I’ve been addicted to things before. I’d run after it as if I was standing naked in a blizzard and ‘love’ was the only house in sight.

But I think I am tired now. My eyes are droopy and the cold isn’t bothering me as much anymore. Of course I wish someone would pick me up and take me up to that house, wrap me in warm blankets and tell me everything was going to be alright.

But my vision is blurry and my heart is aching. I think I just want to sleep. I know now. I’ve accepted it.

I’ll never find love.

-By: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

The girl in yellow pajamas.

I had gotten the house for a price that would’ve been unimaginable for a college student. Almost a dream.

I mean, a whole apartment for 750$? With a separate bedroom? With sun facing windows? Close to transit?

It seemed too good to be true.

And maybe I should’ve expected something was off when the landlord refused to step into the house for the showing. I should’ve seen it coming when the air inside the apartment felt cold even in the peak of summer.

~~

I could’ve sworn that I had kept the cup of juice in the middle of the countertop.

But now the wooden top was covered with spilled orange juice.

Sighing, I picked up the rag and cleaned it up.

~~

My shoulders jumped at the sound of the door closing behind me. It was the main door.

Did I leave it open? I turned to the small ceramic plate I kept near the shoe rack with all my keys in it. If my keys would be there then that usually meant I closed the door.

But to my surprise they weren’t, still probably buried somewhere in my bag.

Thank god the wind closed the door.

~~

I woke up to scribbles at the mid bottom section of my wall. It was the living room, not even my bedroom. That was such a bad look-

Wait, why would my bedroom be better? That would be just creepy.

Did I leave the door open again? Some kid upstairs had been running around for a while too, stomping his feet while he was at it. Probably that brat saw my door open that day and took liberty to provide me with his artistic gestures.

I’ll just have to clean that up too.

God that crayon was hard to get off.

~~

It finally hit me that these coincidences weren’t normal in any way. Unnatural even.

And I considered myself stupid to not realise it until I heard wailing cries coming out of somewhere in my apartment on a rainy day. I looked all around the apartment, even checking behind my plants to look for a vent I perhaps missed out.

I guessed I needed some lights. Searching around in the dark wasn’t helping in any way.

I swiped my hand on the walls until they finally grasped at the light switch which I flicked on.

And the cries stopped.

I took a deep breath.

I needed some answers.

~~

Getting answers from the landlord would’ve had to be the most difficult task of it all. Worse than rubbing off those drawings.

He was persistent about staying silent, I would give him that.

It took countless calls on his phone, knocks on his door and maybe even more warning texts about filing an official complaint for him to cave in.

“It’s haunted.” He said, as if the one thing I actually knew about the situation wasn’t just that.

He sighed and walked up to his window and sat down on his old leather chair, lighting up a cigarette,

“I still remember that day clearly. It was two separate days in all honesty but it feels like it all happened so fast.”

I sat down across him, his teapoy consisting of an ashtray and a tea which he had kindly made for me. The blue-hour provided the room with some bare lighting, making the atmosphere more grim.

“I used to hear this girl scream and cry everyday as her parents beat her. Each and every day. I wanted to do something but her father was the owner of this building and he considered me to be one of his better acquaintances. He had been planning to pass on the ownership to me as soon as his new building was complete. I waited each and everyday patiently so that I could finally help this girl.”

I had to admit that sitting there with my blood boiling and not picking up that teapoy to throw it at him had been hard. So hard.

“You must be disappointed in me.”

That was an understatement.

“But it never happened. I do own the building now but that’s only because of the events that followed.”

What. I wanted him to hurry up so that I could leave this damned place as soon as possible!

“I remember the stretcher as it was pulled out of the apartment. Blood covered the white sheets. The girl’s parents were conveniently ‘not home’ at the time of the accident and it was put off as suicide.”

Was this man admitting to being an accomplice to a crime?

“Don’t fret. I served my time. I went up to court when my heart just couldn’t take the truth anymore. I served 7 years. The apartment was written under me by the man himself in his will.”

So then what? The girl’s ghost was haunting the apartment?

“Soon after her death, her parents died too. Almost within the same week. Nobody knows how. I was in jail at the time so I couldn’t possibly know how. The people who did know, did not have any sort of pity on the folks to care. The apartment was not put on sale for years after that. You’re the 3rd tenant to try to live there within this year itself.”

I . . . finally understood.

He then got up and reached for his wooden cabinet only to pull out my own rental forms,

“I can give you as much time as you want to get prepared. I wont apply the cut off fees either. You can just leave-“

I refused.

~~

Instead I went back to my apartment- no, my home. I cleaned the place, made it organised and pretty.

I put tape over the sharp corners of the furniture, smoothing some edges just to be sure.

I simply cleaned the drink spills whenever they happened.

I painted flowers on the doodles at the bottom of the walls, taking pictures of the ones I liked a lot and sticking them on my refrigerator.

I turned on the lights and sung a lullaby seemingly to myself when I heard cries at night. I tightened the windows when the thunder outside got too loud.

I even started talking to the air, whispering kind words every now and then, words of encouragement if possible.

And one day it finally happened.

That little girl showed up in the living room on a bright sunny day, wearing a frilly yellow pastel dress as she stared out the window near my plants, a teddy bear clutched under her arms.

She had a scar on her forehead- no, she had many scars.

Way too many.

She turned to me, I could finally see the dried up lines of tears dancing down her cheeks.

God she was just a child.

“Thank you.” She whispered, her voice painfully young.

And I never saw her again.

-By: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

Black hole’s Oblivion

“You absorb everything that comes after you, oh how mighty and strong you are! Nothing escapes your grasps!” I could feel my eyes endlessly trace the boundary of the phenomenon as I talked, trying to gauge its vastness.

Looking into the deep dark abyss, I continued,

“To be so powerful that no one dares to get close or cross a boundary and if someone does, they are never to be seen again . . . I wish I could have that. That sense of strength at least!”

The black hole stared right back at my soul, his might fragile and his soul old and withering. His eyes were not full of pride no, they were tired. Empty.

“You wish to be in my place and yet I assure you with confidence that you actually don’t” He said, his voice booming into the observable universe.

But suddenly something familiar crossed the giant’s eyes and he stopped.

And I felt myself almost flinching into nothingness when the black hole’s voice was reduced to a small mumble, as if it was trying it’s best to not scare me away,

“You don’t know how it feels to have the ability to see and know everything and yet not be able to embrace it. To somehow lose its memory the second it was placed in front of you.

I touch light everyday only for her to slip off my hands and fall somewhere deep within my heart, never to be seen again. As if she was nothing but a part of my imagination. A forgotten lover.

I wish to put mercy on the things around me but my extreme need for strength kills everything in a disguise of uncontrollable anguish.

I do things to survive but it ends the existence of everything around me. Diminishes it into nothingness.

The world stares at me like I am an unknown mysterious monster simply because I exist.

Do you know how it feels like to be lonely?

To want to ask for help, getting help and yet not recovering?

Being so unbelievably draining that nothing is left behind from the souls you once knew. They all probably despise me.

And I am sorry for not being more like a star. Maybe I would’ve been more useful that way. Maybe people would have also watched me go down the horizon everyday and be excited for my comeback.

But the mass and pressure of things I had to burden on my shoulders was just too much to handle.

I do try to drift off into the empty void but it’s in my nature to desire love.

To not be forgotten.”

Everything fell silent for a second. It was a lot to take in, a lot to pick apart at. Still somehow the only thing standing out like a sore thumb was,

“But . . . is loneliness really all that worse than power?”

The black hole had almost shrunk into nothingness right in front of my eyes during our conversation. It was now small enough to lay on my palm, exhausted,

“Not having anything to take in or anyone to go to, literally kills my kind.”

Slowly nothing was in front of me besides an echo,

“So of course loneliness is worse; because it kills.”

And when I noticed that I was alive, I realised ‘And I became lonely on purpose.’ was left unsaid.

By: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

Photo albums and mothers.

My mother occasionally sits with me and shows me old photos.

And the albums slowly take us back in time, not failing to capture each moment for what it was.

She shows me the day I first walked, the day I first talked, the day I giggled and the day I was born. It’s all very beautiful and yet the photo albums go way deeper. They keep going way before it was even decided upon that I would exist.

She shows me photos of her, my father and my other uncles and aunts, all of them young and beautiful. They are having fun, laughing about something with drinks in their hands, probably at my uncle considering he wasn’t looking all that entertained in the photo.

She shows me the day she got married, her eyes innocent and so full of love, my father’s the same. Her skin is glowing and her posture is full of life.

Then we go more backwards and I see her at her school, I guess by her sports uniform. She’s grinning ear to ear, her eyes wide as they stared into the camera. I wonder if she had already won the game or she just knew she was going to.

And as we keep looking at photos, I realise how similar she is to me. She smiles just like I do in my own photos. She had me a little too young, I wonder how she would’ve been like if she had more time.

I stare at her now, her eyes dull and her posture always seemingly tired, as if she is withering.

I acknowledge all the times I was mad at her and try to assess what went wrong. Was I too harsh on her?

I look at this specific photo of hers, she’s the age I am right now. Her eyes are bright in that photo, she’s happy. But to think we are at a similar age in this picture and I am studying in college while she’s holding my older brother here, her gown already wrinkled, her skin flushed and her body sweaty. She must have been so tired.

I wish I could go back in time and tell her to pursue her dreams. I wish I could give her all the hugs she missed out on, all the words of comfort she needed because she was a child too. I wish I could hold her hand and tell her it was going to be okay. That she could depend on someone else.

She’s my mother yet sometimes I ought to remember it is her first time on this earth too.

By: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

The throwaway cup.

Cups feel like they’re the essence of a relationship, platonic or romantic.

Oh you’re a guest? Someone important? A new date perhaps?

Here, have this fancy and super clean cup made of crystal clear glass. I probably haven’t taken it out of the cupboard in ages but you are super important. The juice inside is served with 3 ice cubes for perfect temperature.

Oh you’re a casual friend but you aren’t that close yet?

I am going to give you this clean cup made of glass or perhaps some fancy ceramic. I’ll pour out your juice and I’ll ask you if you need ice in it as well.

These behaviours are so ingrained into our brains that we just do them. We just do. We don’t think about why we do it. It doesn’t even matter to us, the reason that is. The only thing that actually holds any value in that moment is WHO this cup is being offered to. Visa ve, the ‘why’.

And maybe that’s why I always notice cups. I buy a cup from a thrift store and wonder what kind of house it lived in before lying on this metal shelf and collecting dust. And what kind of people was it getting used by? Were they using it as a fancy cup or a casual cup? Did someone almost ever break it? Did they reserve this for guests or good friends?

Maybe that’s why I feel a sense of comfort when my friends don’t offer me a fancy cup.

You want juice? Just grab it from the fridge yourself man and oh, use the cups in the bottom drawer; It’s with all the throwaway cups.

And when I do grab that ‘throwaway cup’, it’s a cup they’ve used since they were a toddler. Sometimes the rim of the cup is slightly chipped off, maybe the bottom is scratchy because the varnish wore off, maybe the cup has tea stains on the inside because of its constant use or maybe there is something special engrained into the bottom of the mug, like a doodle they scratched out using something sharp when they were a kid and their mom probably lectured them for it.

It all feels a bit silly but it’s incredulously accurate.

And something about being offered something in a throwaway cup feels weirdly special.

-Written by: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

Women.

Sometimes I question femininity.

I think about why some women act the way the do, talk the way they do or behave the way they do.

I ask myself why they are loud or why they’re so possessive or why do they stay so quiet.

It eats me alive to even think about these thoughts as a woman myself because I hate myself to even think something so atrocious. Something so mean.

Majority of the time I think about myself this way as well and the circle just continues endlessly, spiralling into distrust, anger and sometimes even envy.

But then I remind myself to think about the women in front of me as little girls.

Little girls who are loud today because they lived around people who would talk over them.

Little girls who are possessive today because they never got something that actually belonged to them.

Little girls who are quiet today because they never got some peace when they needed it the most.

I imagine them learning how to paint their nails, do their hair, paint flowers and wear pretty dresses. I imagine them getting hugged by their mothers and playing with dolls and I finally come across something similar to a deep feminine connection.

I look at a gorgeous women in the eye and don’t feel envious at all as I know we’re just little girls who grew up.

It takes a while but in the end it answers all my questions.

-By: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

Tree branches and leg placements.

I got up from my seat on the subway at the peak of midnight, almost 1 AM. Having been worn out from a tiring double shift, I was finally returning home.

It was quiet.

And all of it felt too much.

The quietness of the subway, the way my sledge bag kept hitting my leg, the feeling of the cold metal bar as I held onto it and even the way my feet ached from the minimalistic task of standing. Even the passive thoughts of my college fees, my pay checks, my friendships and my romantic life were dazzling around my head like hammers ready to hit any second.

And so I closed my eyes.

Suddenly I am back at the playground of my old apartment complex, occupying my 8 year old self’s body. I am gripping on the tree branches as I balance myself on one of the thicker ones, my feet are grazing against the stump’s bumps.

My eyes wander around the leaves and the sunlight as I hear my own voice encouraging my friend to climb up the tree.

“Just place your hand there! That’s it! Now climb up!” I say.

My face is grime with dust and sweat yet I am smiling ear to ear. The wind is blowing into the garden and it’s ruffling the leaves, the evening cold weather slipping in right before sunset.

And suddenly everything is okay. In that moment, nothing else matters other than making my friend climb that tree. In that moment it was all about tree branches and leg placements.

But my world shakes a little and I feel the train slowly come to a stop. On those tree branches I hear the ding of the subway doors opening.

I didn’t want to open my eyes and yet I know I have to.

And I do as I slowly walk out.

-By: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

To love

“To love is to give it your all.”

Is it really though? Does love really require you to give it your all? Sure there are ups and downs, but at the end of the day when you are looking at the person you love, do you really think about what you’re getting back?

Perhaps to love is just taking a picture of a leaf and sending it to someone whilst saying “Autumn is coming, let’s go on a walk at the park next week”.

Maybe to love is just placing a glass of water on the dimly lit desk as your person works hard on something.

Maybe to love is just holding the hand of the person you love as they cry. You don’t need to say a word. All they need is the reassurance that you’re there.

Maybe to love is to give a simple compliment.

Maybe to love is to pick up a call at 3 AM and lie through your teeth saying “Oh I wasn’t asleep! Ask away.”

Maybe to love is to smile at a joke someone says regardless of how unfunny it may have been because the light in that person’s eyes shines bright with excitement.

Maybe to love is to watch a movie together.

Maybe to love is to lie and say “Oh I really liked the smell of those incense sticks you bought for me!” even though you barely had time to even light it.

Maybe to love is to save olives from your plate to give it to your person because you ‘don’t like olives’.

Maybe to love is just simply love and not thinking about how much you’re giving because if you really were in love, it won’t matter to you or the person loving you back.

Because love isn’t a trade or a responsibility; It’s a habit.

-By: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

“I am the most calmest and perhaps peaceful person within my group irl. I have never lifted my finger against a person before. Even the thought of doing that inflicts unhappy emotions within me.

And yet here I am with the inexplicable desire to gauge this thing’s eyeballs out and grind his teeth into fine power which I’ll make him snort and then perhaps throw him off a cliff. Maybe I’ll fill the bottom off the cliff with acid up until brim just to make sure this insalubrious feeling of dread of this thing surging back into the living world does not emerge. If it does, watch me thrust a sword into my own gut to survive the horrors my eyes will have to witness.”

-Me aggressively writing out my anger onto my phone in public instead of displaying it.

[marshmellodragon]

I don’t know if I want to turn to dust and dissolve into the sea.

Nor do I know if I want to sore high with the birds into the seemingly unending sky.

I don’t know how many people have died on the ground I stand on.

Neither do I know how many people had the time of their lives on this pavement.

Whose bones am I standing on?

Whose party am I interrupting?

Am I even allowed to be here?

Do I even want to be here?

I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Sometimes it’s okay to not know.

But I do. I want to know.

-Written by: marshmellodragon

[marshmellodragon]

If you had done or said that one thing, your entire life would have turned out differently. Almost. It’s always almost. You know why? Because it is hard to even try and guess if the outcome would change the entirety of the meaning of your existence in a bad or a good way. That completely rational fear holds us back and it is a curse.

-Written by: marshmellodragon