notnocturne

[notnocturne]

a piece about being colourblind;

your eyes are purple. not just any purple. it's a brilliant violet. the specks you call gold are actually rings of azure, circling your pupil like the moons around a planet. they bleed into each other, rearranging the gap between them until they can't tell whose thoughts are whose. is it your warmth, or mine? is it your gasping breaths, or mine?

your eyes turn darker in the sun, dancing like the cold embrace of watery depths when the light hits it just right. it's a contradiction, a scratch in the stanza. you can still see the flames, if you inspect closely. they weave between the glares, the light, moving to the nudge of the tide. did you pull, or did you push? did i let go first or did you?

the glassiness blurs, a wink and then gone. it shattered like a plate across the tiles, a ripple across the lake, a smudge in your lenses.

was it blinking or suffocating when you held my gaze? was it your eyes that flinched blue, and mine that glared red?

[notnocturne]

No, we're not soulmates. This is not divine intervention. And this is most certainly not chance. I willed this. I knit the threads of fate myself until they spelled your name.

I love you intentionally. I love you with every bit of conscience I was born with.

-marsadist (via twitter)

[notnocturne]

the candle spluttered out and so did your life. i'd be telling a horrible lie if i said I couldn't still remember the depth of your fiery heat.

it twinkled, dwindling down to the waxy residue left to melt into the cracks where it would stay. stay with me. slowly, the flame we'd danced around grew smaller, smaller, smaller. until it was nothing but a speck in the distance. i'd be telling a wretched lie if i said I couldn't still recall the exact shade of orange.

i held you close to my chest, but fire scalds. you left your scorched marks across my torso, leaving stains of tainted flesh in your wake. the tips of the fallen flame licked at my ego, telling a story of infinite possibilities snatched. infinite opportunities untaken. infinite chances left to rot.

but i'd be telling a miserable lie if I said the colour of the destruction you left didn't also remind me of the dawn.

[notnocturne]

i wonder if a candle and the moon feel a strange fondness for one another, if a piece of them was carved out just right in the shape of the other.

I wonder if this fondness translated to a familiarity; a routine. in the same way a baker could roll dough with his eyes closed. the same way i know how your breaths feel against mine. the way the grass bends with the weight of dew each morning, or how a mother's womb loves its child so dearly that it molds to her babe. because these things know no different.

they must recognise it in some layer of consciousness. the way they both wax with the swells of indulgence, or wane in the pulls of the tide. surely they wink at one another when night rises up to meet them, or blush when the sun opens a bleary eye. they both drip and splatter; one with oil, the other with stars.

do you think they admire each other's fires? the one that sits atop the candle, flaming brightly and dancing to its own heat? the one that spills its light across the moon, casting deep groves across her features, and reflecting for the universe to behold?

do you think they know we watch them with inane fascination? do they spin for us? in the depths of their incomprehensible embrace, do they glance at yearning souls who wish for a moment -just once- to bathe in that gravity? the sheer fantasy in the way the moon laughs, the way the flame licks at its wounds?

[notnocturne]

the graffiti sprayed across the walls say "I was here."

as if this small declaration, the barest shell of a whisper told to one's self in the silent of night, was all that mattered. it was a public plea, a yell from the rooftops; remember me. i was here. i walked on those stones. i sat by those trees. i existed. i breathed the same air as you, and stared blankly at the same moon, and wrinkled my nose at the same smells. i was a being. i had a soul, and thoughts, and opinions. i tapped my foot to the same music, and found myself laughing at the same jokes. i had to cut my hair when it was too long, and wash my off-white sneakers when they were dirty, and flick the page of the same second-hand textbooks. it doesn't matter that you'll never know who i am, but i want you to know that i was here. i was here at the same time as you, or years before, or minutes after. remember me, see me, acknowledge me.

[notnocturne]

things writers should do:

write, you spineless cowards.

[notnocturne]

mutual: has rarely if ever spoken to me but consistently likes my text posts

me: i would die for you

[notnocturne]

“Why does my back hurt?” I ask, hunched over at my desk like a shrimp who learned how to type.

[notnocturne]

the reason im in writer's block at the moment and can't freely express any of my usual emotions in my writing is because....im happy?

what the heck this is not good for my tumblr

[notnocturne]

reblog because I'm currently in a standstill at #4 and the only thing looking me in the eyes is the sliver of hope I see in the lining of the clouds.

the stages of writing

amazing, new idea

realisation of having to write it

doubt

despair

self-loathing

coffee

**inhales** ahiodfghaoufelfhe;ufvnaur;oawujkeflne **screaming in the background**

ta-da! a story

[notnocturne]

I think this speaks for itself

[notnocturne]

“What difference is there between the figure of the conqueror and that of the pirate?" said the ancients. The difference only between the eagle and the vulture,—serenity or restlessness.” 

-Alexandre Dumas, The Black Tulip

[notnocturne]

“I thought to myself: if it’s true that every person has a star in the sky, mine must be distant, dim, and absurd. Perhaps I never had a star.”

- The Blind Owl by Sadeq Hedayat

[notnocturne]

you guys can still vote! help me out pleaseeeeeee

I recently read White Nights and Animal Farm. should I start posting my book reviews on here?

[notnocturne]

I recently read White Nights and Animal Farm. should I start posting my book reviews on here?

[notnocturne]

What if fish have religion and we’re the devil?

Fishing, at its core, is psychological warfare in water.

It’s the last socially acceptable primal hunt, dressed up in patience and plaid shirts. It’s the ancient predator instinct— muted, polished, and dipped in sunscreen.

Lure. A shiny metal lie. Bait dangling like the fanciest dessert one can offer, whispering promises of “easy food” to a creature that just wants some lunch.

Hook. The betrayal. A sharp, sudden “GOTCHA!!” shoved through flesh, dragging them from their entire universe into a dry, suffocating land.

Net fishing? Even worse. That’s mass kidnapping. No lies, no warning. Just drag a city of citizens out of their world because someone’s hungry.

Catch and release? Ah, we’re doing trauma tourism now? “Here’s a gaping wound—go tell your friends the surface is a hell dimension. And your kidnapper? Yeah, I'm the savior who took pity on you. And now you’re free—just with some post traumatic fish disorder."

And here’s the kicker—humans justify this with words like tradition, necessity, or sport. No adrenaline rush of a chase but just subtle mind games with our dinner. We turned the act of psychological bait-and-switch into a hobby. We even do it to each other. Job interviews, sales pitches, dating apps— modern fishing with different bait.

Men (especially) fish because it scratches the ancient itch. They can’t run around with spears hunting mammoths anymore. Can’t stalk prey in silence from behind green bushes and wrestle it with bare hands. Society frowns on that. But cast a line? Wait in monk-like silence? Pull a colourful tasty beast from the water realm using only your cunning and twitch reflexes? Suddenly it’s noble. Peaceful. 'Man vs. Nature' but with cold beer.

Also—it’s illusion of control. You sit on the edge of the world—river, sea, lake—knowing full well it’s a vast, chaotic space you’ll never conquer. But in that tiny moment, when a fish bites, you win. A miniature domination. A soft, civilized “I won” over the unknowable.

And yeah, we dress it up as civilized. Because the truth? It’s manipulative. Violent. Control and deception wrapped in silk, called peace, necessity and livelihood. But we slap on phrases like 'leisure activity' and 'bonding time' so we can pretend it’s all just harmless tradition. No different than trapping. Just more poetic.

And it’s not even always about eating the fish—some don’t even cook the damn thing. They just want the win. The ego stroke. 'I lured life from the deep' talk.

.

.

.

This isn’t about fish anymore, is it?

(image source: pinterest)

[notnocturne]

What about the boys with soft eyes and hands? Whose fingers yearned for a paintbrush, but was instead thrusted a weapon to kill?

-except from my book