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Maybe this world is another planet’s hell.

Aldous Huxley (via mysharona1987)

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░ &&. gagnslaus—

                       he feels like drowning sometimes.         it's when expanses of reality are suffocated with thick pretence over fictional psyches in his possession. his fingers are stiff around the umbrella and his breath disperses like drawn out exhales of smoke that resembles escaping gasps of life from within him.         there’s a gradient of brilliant blue in the distance that dyes his eyes to a shade of monochrome when his vision blurs the disheartening grey pinned to the back of his lids. his mind functions in algorithms and his world revolves around clogs of logic, but there’s no distinction of beginning and end for the sky, and he fumbles like how fingers do to seek the start of tape.                  the clouds envelopes the bleak key of colours and also his senses as they numb with the dull and frigid air. snow doesn’t cover in a day, so the cold remains bearable even with only the thin coat he has draped over sturdy shoulders.            seconds tick before the air begins rising, the unpleasant humidity tracing intimate patterns over his exposed skin and wreathing suffocatingly around him. it pulls a frown at his lips with irk visible between brows and behind the gleam of his eyeglasses. the hollow colour of the sky drills a blinding moment of light when he glances directly upwards, peering past the peak of upright structures of towering altitudes.     it’s out of courtesy that he points out ( and sensibility that drives him to extents of indifference and guises when weaving through social strings of society ) with an amicable albeit quite bland tone as he pushes his glasses to sit higher up his nose bridge.                    ❝ rain will be pouring down soon, it’s advised that you find yourself some shelter. ❞

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bold any fears that apply to your muse!!! italicize what makes them uncomfortable!!! (and add your own if they aren’t listed)

the dark | fire | open water (sea/ocean) | (any) deep water | being alone | crowded/enclosed spaces (agoraphobia) | confined spaces (claustrophobia) | change | failure | war | being controlled/lack of free will | prison | blood | drowning | suffocation | public speaking | natural animals (any kind) | supernatural monster/animals (any kind) | heights | death/dying | intimacy | rejection | abandonment | the unknown | the future | not being good enough | scary stories | talking to new people | poverty | loud noises | being touched | powerlessness | spiders ( arachnophobia ) 

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░ &&. sempitxrnals —

        no night ever swallows him with its teeth, and it’s a world of mercurial changes when the day escapes from his fingers. the sun-soaked concrete becomes a gradient of black, he recalls from memory, because morning scorches bare bodies alike when he awakens with the earth. the soles of his shoes scrapes against cobblestones and asphalt, but he’s blinded by weariness that blurs his vision and coerces his mental states of collapse. maybe without them, he’ll be cold.          the vestige of humans loiters like the perpetual scent of smoke that clouds his nostalgia, and it’s familiarity upon an unduly that casts a mocking smile over veiled features. he fears not; none of darkness and none of the cold. the confined alley becomes a caving space of resonance as chuckles escape him in chains of droning laughter that eventually halts to a dead cease. 

        the air still stenches of undesirable ardour of living creatures, but it’s calming when he inhales the conglomerate of identities that reassures stemming doubts of sentience. the episode clears with the sky, and the moon offers a wistful smile and its tears glimmer upon the wall behind him.         his mind is impeachable again, but the protocol for speech is executed more easily and he begins when the night draws back its claws. he enumerates the figure in his 3 o’clock direction with accuracy unstrained by environment, but his parched throat makes it difficult to speak.                     ❝ precisely 3:15am, you shouldn’t be out, just like everyone. ❞

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&&.

starter call!

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                 ❝  I am singing now 

                                          while Rome                                                                                      burns. ❞

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it begins with all white. 

he remembers growing up; the soothing voice of his gentle mother when she cooed his name and the strong arms of his father that shielded his naivety from the grasp of darkness lurking in his oblivion. 

he remembers his mother speaking about the most magical wonders and the sweetest things in life. he also remembers her expressions of distraught when she’d whispered with quavering voices about the ephemerality of blissful joy. 

he learns that growing up meant gasping for air, and his life stained to a dark grey. 

the bitterness of despair on the tip of his tongue was fresh with a crimson swig of blood choked from the depths of his throat, and the searing burn of pain and perturbation from his father’s palm had lectured a young mind about a desired society. 

grey dimmed to a murky black and he compared it to the colour of dried blood in the cramped alleyways. everything collided and crumbled too quickly; everything manifesting glee within the cavities of his mind. somewhere in between the slits of sluggish hours and interminable days, he learns to read the numbers everyone carries. 

you’re judged by the digits, and your death sentence is in close proximity when they multiply. he felt the staggering weights strike upon broader shoulder blades, but he can no longer afford to seize the innocence and ignorance between trembling fingers anymore. 

god is no longer, and you’re just a sheep in this society built upon distinctions of corrupt and justice. 

he parted ways with naivety and black faded into a blinding silver. 

silver had resembled the glisten of his weaponry that rested between slim fingers, and the reflection of the system in shattered mirrors. time soon became the antidote for the toxins surging through his veins and under his skin, there are only mere stings of pride and distress. 

order and law began hammering loose the stacks of young bones and slowly tore his flesh open with blemished carves, freeing the venom of dusked sentiments for him to inhale into tarnished lungs. 

somewhere between splitting veins and anomalous pulses, he forgot to exhale. and he drowned. 

he drowned in the ascending numbers that he sees when he points his dominator so aversely at his father’s head. 

he drowned in the cracked chambers of his mind, inundated with jagged abstractions held captive by foul intuitions, and the smile at his lips decayed. 

time sharpened his edges, smothered his faults and the blemishing scars granted satisfaction upon his visage every so often. with calloused fingertips, he ascended higher for the pride in his blood to roar and to taste the complacence lingering across chapped lips. 

he’s long gone and more than one number, but a chain of numbers. identification reads 00475-AEAJ-39875-2, and he’s referred to as an enforcer. 

he continues to deluge blanched pages into the brilliant hues of red. 

deft fingers are enwreathed with the strings of a puppeteer, because in this game of survival, everyone is a player.

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source

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Words, I think, are such unpredictable creatutes. No gun, no sword, no army or king will ever be more powerful than a sentence. Swords may cut and kill, but words will stab and stay, burying themselves in our bones to become corpses we carry into the future, all the time digging and failing to rip their skeletons from our flesh.

Ignite Me (via areadersperspective)

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Art by Le:N | #

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"Take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented."

Elie Wiesel, concentration camp survivor (via maturedfindings)

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