I figured if everything in the universe is me and vice versa, then writing to myself is like writing to an inanimate item, but which of the mes am I writing to? Am I writing to my favorite fork? Maybe my childhood tree house? What about the Eiffel Tower all the way in Paris or that one loaf of bread burning in an oven somewhere?
What if I receive a letter in return from a faraway star in an undiscovered galaxy that begins with a “Dear Me” also? What if so many of us write back in response that all it does is cause chaos? We’re all me, but who are we? Does it matter more than I thought- each and every single one of us using a unique designation to call ourselves by? Should I no longer refer to who I see in the mirror as myself? Or does it only apply to the things I look at but don’t see a me identical to the form I’m currently using?
What if the inner discussions I have with myself are truly all different points of view, just that they’re narrated with the voice of the body I inhabit? For all I know, the struggle I had with myself last night on whether I should drink soda or water was not the me I am now. I could have simply thought, “I’m thirsty,” and, unnoticeably, two other mes, somewhere else in this world of us, answered right away with their suggestions. One- an empty bottle still sitting in the factory waiting to be filled. The other- a fake, potted plant hoping that soaking up H2O like all the greenery outside will make it just as lush and bright. (P.s. the suggested soda was too tempting)
If all we are is each other and each of us is me, then aren’t we all oblivious to the oblivion within us. There're many pieces of ourself we’ve forgotten and won’t ever find again. What if this letter is to one of the unremembered? What do I say when I can’t think of anything besides, “Sorry no one remembers you,” however, is an apology even necessary? Yeah, I might not recognize who you are but, in the end, my point is that we are all one which means you’re also me and I’m not the type to forget even myself.
Maybe all the mes tossed into oblivion are now disguised as the mes in my dreams of alternate worlds made of someone else. Then, again, is there anything to say sorry for? I may not remember but knowing and remembering are two different things. Just because I don’t remember what I know doesn’t mean I no longer know at all. So just because you’ve been erased doesn’t mean you’ve never existed and just because you cease to exist here doesn't mean you can't exist elsewhere. If the absence of your existence was the truth, then where the heck would I deliver this letter to? Even something imaginary is considered real to the individual who dared to imagine, therefore, being that individual, we are real. And, though, all I’ve written here so far might be a compilation of fallacies- so what? All of the fallacies are me as well. We never end. We’re everywhere, everyone, and everything.
Anyways, taking this theory into consideration, let me start the actual letter:
Dear Me, You’re awesome! Yours truly, Me
P.s. This doesn’t make me (us) a narcissist, does it?
I didn’t know what to do lol ♀️ Btw if u see any big, odd spaces randomly placed around, there's probs just an emoji not visible to u there, k? #bluepup#bayentry#Ltseasonc ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 4 Seasons Group Chat ------------------------------- Spring: Dear Fellow Seasons,
It is with utmost joy that I announce the coming of a new time. Winter has ended the year perfectly and is doing her best to forge a suitable path for rebirth in the grand scheme of things. I shall do my best in not allowing her hard work to melt away without reward blooming beneath the snow.
Warm Regards, Spring
❄ Winter: Uhh… Ur welcome? Thx?
Summer: What're you even doing Summer: What's with the formal message, Spring?
Spring: I just figured we should start out the year with clear minds and a will to do better… ya know… we kind of made 2020 a mess… we should try to make up for it, no? :)
Fall: We did nothing wrong Fall: We weren’t the ones that screwed up last year, remember?
Spring: Not exactly, but we definitely didn't help much either
Fall: So? We just did our jobs as was scheduled Fall: The humans r the ones who made it worse. They're always causing us trouble smh
Summer: Ikr they're such a pain but at the same time it makes everything more entertaining lmao I can't wait 'til it's my turn to mess with em lol
❄ Winter: Uhh… I actually think they're quite nice
Summer: Why? Lol Summer: They complain about you the most Summer: How could you possibly think of them as nice?
❄ Winter: I dunno… just do ig… reasons…
Summer: Sigh ♀️ You never make any sense
❄ Winter: I am what I am. It is what it is.
Summer: … Summer: Anyways Summer: Did you have anything special in mind to do, Spring? Summer: We'll hear ya out All s
Spring: Um not really Spring: I was hoping we could come up with something together :)
Summer: Alright alright Summer: Then I've got an idea already. Hear me out, yeah? Summer: So my idea is… Summer: Drum roll please
bluepuppy01@outofleague I reread Springs lines just now after seeing this comment It's not the same at all but I can definitely tell that out of the 4 of em, spring speaks most similarly to u sometimes lol
Muse 1.0 ------------------ How can I ever run out of words when words themselves are my muse?
To You, From Me:
When I don’t know what to write, I think of you and begin to type. There’s no such thing as writer’s block if you take ‘em all and build a tower to live in like a child with legos and an endless imagination.
“What to write? What to write?” people ask.
My advice will always be you. “Write about writing and you’ll never be lost, for it’ll always be everyone’s default muse.”
One may have customized every topic they’ve chosen for aesthetics, to express emotions, or just to empty one’s mind, but when all else fails and one feels as if they can’t pen a single thing, you’re forever there to assist- offer a metaphorical shoulder as a lift (not a pillow to cry on). You’re there to remind them where everything started before everyone kept pressing the update button.
And me? I’m someone who never dares to press update. I stay where I know I’m comfortable, where everything is just right- not too this and not too that (call me Goldilocks for all I care). To me, you’re no longer just a default. You’re what I chose myself- not what I was forced to comply with. You’re a solid foundation that supports even a tumbling tower of building blocks like myself (lol apparently we’re both good at playing Jenga). Above all, you’re my muse. All I ever want to write about is you and until I was challenged to write this letter, I never knew. Sorry for realizing so late but aren’t infatuated people usually the last ones to recognize what they’re feeling? I think that fact says it all.
For when you yourself are my muse, how can the page ever remain blank? How could the tower ever truly stop climbing? How could the sky ever end?
We noticed how a snowflake of ours landed upon a tear streaming down your cheek one night. It was then we worried if maybe we made it too cold for your already weakened heart to bear. But we didn’t want to leave just yet. Why? We weren’t sure. We’ve never gravitated towards a single land floater like that before, but, for whatever fate’s reason, whether to freeze your tears, numb the pain, or other, we stayed and let it snow 'til sunrise. ~ Sending more snow kisses soon in case you need them.
Sincerely, Snow Clouds
Dear Snow Clouds,
The other night, I kneeled outside and looked to the seemingly dark and empty sky. I saw no difference between it and the heart thumping inside my chest.
Everything was numb except my nose, burning red from the freezing temperatures, yet I know I felt it. It was barely a whisper that touched my cheek- cold but comforting, a snowflake. It melted too fast for me to believe there was more than just a cloudless sky above. Yet, at that moment, when my hope started to fade, another fell, then another, and another. All around me snowflakes swayed, twirling about in all their bright, white grace.
I couldn’t thank you all enough for showing me what could be hidden within a supposed void when I was just about to drown in mine to end it all.
With all the gratitude a human can give, A stranger on the ground
Happens… Days like this The ones where you feel as if You’re the only one who exists There’s nothing- no one else Only soundless static in empty space And maybe a bed to shelf yourself No bookmark to show Where you should begin No ellipsis to let you know there’s more Than an upcoming happy or sad end No title but you think You already know what to expect So why not just lie here Do nothing except breathe ‘Cause why do anything when Your sheets are sweltering sands Of deserted passion And you’re just the burnt pages Buried deeeeeep beneath them Waiting for a tsunami to appear- Floods of watercolors Pretending to be an oasis Painting supposed purpose Into your ghost-towned incentive And filling the silence with waves Of all the dreams you used to have Rippling about- Not because stones are thrown But because you decided, one day, To learn how to swim
[Un]Cherish(ing/ed) Moments •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Now's POV (Present) °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° They say I’m impatient Waiting for no one Always busy moving forward Burying the past beneath glass cases Smudged with charred fingerprints A symbol Future likes to use Because the scent of burning memories Or, well, memories that will burn Are like that of aromatic incense To honor the life of the dead But to be honest, I tend to lag Behind currents trying to drag me Down the rapids of possibility Endless waterfalls await my passage While I dawdle over the moments That fascinate me to no end The ones humans share and interact within Selfishly savoring these instances As a spectator alone in a line of just myself Before Past comes to collect the relics I witnessed exist, live, and expire
Past’s POV °°°°°°°°°°°°° They say I’m better the way I am But they call me “Used To Be” And, for that, I feel bad about How they blame poor Now For the things Future planned for him I see him do his best Trying to enjoy all of Life’s little moments When he doesn’t know what’s coming Even if loads of hate and disaster Are invisibly scheduled on the calendar I should probably be proud Noticing that all people talk about Are yesterdays and tomorrows But knowing how they wish For it to not be Now As a companion alongside their journey Makes my job uncomfortable Because they haven’t realized What I’ve already experienced Which is that Now can’t hold their hand forever Future will come sooner than they think To mark the moments meant for me My cue to take away What should've been cherished Before I revealed myself too late
Btw, I wrote this part through a different POV in order to clarify something •~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~• Untitled For Now (4)
Simeon’s POV- Years Later:
Perhaps I could have done more. Perhaps I could have done better. Perhaps I could have just paid more attention or acted quicker. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done anything to begin with. I could’ve done and been a lot of things. However, it doesn’t matter, now, how I do things or how I am, because who I am is not who I was and that’s who I needed to be back then.
The bane of my loved ones is Midnight herself. Just because stars decorate her cloak doesn’t mean she is any less of a grim reaper than the skeleton people have wielding a scythe in their imaginations. First, she reaped my father's soul, and when she judged her harvest as too poor, she came back to reap a best friend.
I remember little of my father now. For example, things like his face, voice, or scent are all just blurs, static, and an odorless memory beyond restoration. The only souvenirs he left me with were a Hot Wheels car and all the pain a child growing up without a dad could possibly endure. I remember how much I treasured the toy, carrying it with me everywhere as if I was walking around, hand-in-hand, with someone whom I didn’t know would merely be a stranger to me now. At the age of thirteen, I recognized that supposed toy as the getaway car Midnight used as more than an escape. I've been lured into meeting her many a time, but with that gift Midnight painted as a memento, she lured out someone who cared too much about a friend when all they usually would have done, any other night, was sleep until the sun rose.
Ritz had come outside and found me digging up what neither of us could have known would be his very grave. My intention was to retrieve the pain I couldn’t live without and his was to retrieve a keepsake of my happier days. Instead, that night ended with me gaining more scars than my skin could carry and, he, a dramatic end he’d certainly be proud of, but one that brought me nothing except the opposite of happiness in the years ahead.
Grave dug. Coffin opened. A letter missing. A letter found. Ritz read the words I shone light upon, then said in a way I didn’t know how to interpret, “Dude, I think we did the time capsule thing in reverse.” The only thoughts I had in that moment were still of concern for him. He had collapsed just seconds before entering his grave, and what I hate myself for the most is that I didn’t stop him from doing so.
What happened next are vivid images, often playing in my head, of a boy swallowed by the darkness that breathed the same breaths as that of the house he grew up in- was expected to grow up in. It was as if the world concluded Ritz wasn’t a being deserving of existence and decided to erase him, then and there, before my very eyes. I was unable to react. By the time I realized he was gone, all I was capable of doing was standing there with a toy car in my grip and a flashlight in the other as I stared down at the dirt, hoping that, between the blinks of my eyelids, I could see through the folds of space like I could see through the dark.
It is unknown how long I stood frozen like a being of the Ice Age re-living its last living moments before finally melting into the pores of the earth. Eventually, I jumped down into the pit dug by none other than myself, dropping to my knees while desperately feeling every inch of dirt. My fingers sifted through it all in search of perhaps a hand reaching out for help, but it was to no avail. Finally, I reached out to the last thing he ever held. A letter found its way into my hands...but it wasn’t a letter at all. It was nothing more than a blank piece of paper. And as if to reject my touch, it swiftly turned into something resembling black sand before disappearing, too, like my best friend into Midnight.
I was gonna make a whole short story or something out of this... but I got lazy, so here be a microtale (aka a story unfinished) #bluepup #metaphorc#writersbay#bayentry (I was gonna include some other challenges too, but obviously that didn't pan out lol)
Edit//: turns out I wrote a story out of this after all... (see post "Spilled Ink" for full story)
Ok, so...this was definitely not the direction I was intending to head in when I first started, but oh well.♀️ #bluepup#chaosc#bayentry#bluestory •~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~• Unheeded ~~~~~~~~ I laid a claim on a handwritten note like a silent star giving you a secret place to safely lay your wishes and tuck them in gently, or, perhaps, more like a student passing a confession in class to a deskmate; they both can be applied except the note I sent to you said, “HELP.”
I reported my sighting of a monster under my bed to, you, who I thought would care more about the potential danger her little daughter was in, yet you sighed, tired of my “antics” and begged me to visit dreamland already as if I was talking about the tooth fairy instead of a demon. You shoved the narrow length of my shoulders, steering my small body towards the bedroom like a stroller carrying a crying baby whose cries you ignore just so you can do your own thing for once, because, apparently, a child’s needs mustn't get in the way of a parent’s hobbies. I remember how I grasped onto the sides of the doorway as soon as a single foot of mine passed the threshold to a world that didn’t belong to only me anymore. I heard a howl from the wolf nudging me forward, “Quit being difficult!” and then a growl, “Get in bed already. Mommy’s show is about to come on.” In that moment, I was prey to both the fiend creeping underneath the designated spot where I slept as well as the beast forcing me into a room inside its den.
There was a physical struggle, but the weaker of us soon lost- me being the weak child. You picked me up and flung me onto the sheets making some stuffed animals jump in protest of your harsh actions. I bawled my eyes out while roaring at you to let me go- to let me out and not make me stay. My trembling fingers gripped tightly as what little of my chewed nails were left drilled into the skin of your arms, trusting in a possible miracle of "maybe the wolf that dragged me onto the dining table would lose its appetite and be so kind as to guide me back to a home I once cherished." Nevertheless, a wolf is deaf to food’s idea of compromise. After scraping me off of your forelimbs as if the pain and fear my heart felt were nothing but leftover smudges of blood unworthy of being licked off the plate, you cast aside my carcass for a demonic vulture to scavenge from meanwhile going in search for another delicacy to feast on. My bones, frozen stiff, were left with nothing to do but lie in wait for what the beings of the afterlife had planned for me.
Lying atop the veiled mattress, under the quilt tying me down like a nameless tombstone, I stared at the ceiling fan spinning ‘round and ‘round as it counted down the residual moments I had remaining on earth. The tiny breeze of air it offered me wasn’t enough to revive the breaths I didn’t dare breathe. No longer could I watch my moments leave me with each revolution, thus I squeezed my eyes shut tight to deny the inevitable. It was then, as if the semi-blink of denial was the cue, that I heard a scritch-scratch crawl along the wooden floorboards- a sound evocative of claws being dragged down a chalkboard but evoking dread rather than vexation. A brief thought flew across the chaos of my quaking mind, “It feels like my face is turning blue from holding in my breath, but if I let the breath go, it’ll hear me…but...surely, it already knows where I am, so it wouldn’t matter, right?”
~~ The Next Morning ~~
A single mother woke at dawn to discover why the warnings, from children all over the world, of the “monster under the bed” should be heeded.
Um..this- I'm not too sure about. I feel like I forced it too much and focused a little more than I should have on the specific motions of objects before decisively ending whatever it could've been prematurely, but oh well- it is what it is
Midnight fog swam with the invisible currents, floating towards the forest that wouldn’t be eerie without it. Where the fog crosses through the shallow winds of change, I lurk in the depths of an ocean where they never dare to dive too deep.
Following relentlessly, like a remora to a manta ray of heavy mist, we move in sync over the quivering blades of grass seeming to suddenly grow dull upon our arrival as if the presence of a ghostly fog and its shadows could belittle the sharpness of the tools in the shed that is the backwoods. As they quiver in fear, the susurrus of their timid cries contributes to the macabre atmosphere we’ve waded our way into whilst maneuvering through the transparent blue of the sky ‘neath the sky.
With this welcome, we haughtily and hauntingly glide onward between tall, grotesque beings with needles and broader grass blades growing out from their rough, scaly skin. It is here where I stealthily blend into the darker shades ‘neath these trees where even the moonlight cannot reach.
Buried under the zephyr of silver clouded waves lacking iridescent sheens yet drifting above Lady Earth among fellow brethren, I somehow drown in something redolent of the feeling a specter gets when convincing a human how perhaps it isn’t just a phantasm, for this bewitching hour is the prime time for creatures, commonly dismissed as ordinary occurrences of nature, like us, to come out evincing to the inhabitants of this world the monsters we truly are.
It is our purpose. We are here, as commanded by the summoning of our Delphic master, to generously flood this humanity infested realm with terror. Therefore, how could one, such as I, not be immersed in rapture when traversing through the midnight of a planet unaware, thus far, of the future that awaits it?
The Doodle Who Dared Question the Doodler •~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~• The graphite dragon gave a grin Towards the creator Of the doodle that was him, Displaying his gratitude for her whim, Yet his kind smile Slowly turned into a scowl As the dragon drawing dared To criticize its master’s skills.
“With a pencil you drew me this way, Yet used the eraser to rub out details Better left on the page, And let remain the gray stains You should’ve instead erased. My scales aren’t aligned, My horns- asymmetrical and uneven, My eye does not match the expression I am trying to characterize, And my nostril, seriously- Is that even what it is?! It’s my body, but... I’m not too sure myself. Also, what the heck have you planted That now grows out from my spine?! I feel an itch I just cannot reach But would rather not look behind.”
~~A few minutes later~~
Oh, how the blank page cried! Never again Would she meet her beloved, A casually drawn dragon With many an imperfection. Though some qualities he had Were not quite nice to have, She still loved every flaw newly shaded On the blank surface she always was.
#chrysalisc#bluepup @writersbay#cyanentry#bayentry Lol does this count for #blue_insect ?? Oh well- since I'm the judge anyways, I'll go with, "Sure, why not?" •~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~• Chrysalis Stage ~~~~~~~~~~~ I’m at the chrysalis stage of my own life Where eighteen equals adulthood, But my mindset, More mature for my age yet scatter-brained, Is far too underdeveloped To properly function In the world of grown men and women Who perseveringly sacrifice Blood, sweat, tears, and time To provide, for themselves and others, Food on the table among other necessities.
Rather than emerge from The temporary home I made myself, I’d prefer it to be a permanent nook Where my life is free To stay just the way it’s always been- Private and fully accepting of who I am. Instead, I’m expected to abandon This safe haven I’ve sculpted Using the skin I’ve molted, And transform into a stranger Who’s less part of me Than the chrysalis itself, So the world will accept me More than I would after metamorphosis.
Why can’t time just freeze Or this chrysalis remain forever Protecting me from sinister reality? Why must I go out into the world, Performing actions I care naught about For results that make no difference To the person I am presently? They say it will matter To the me of the future, But if there’s only one more stage After chrysalis, Then I don’t think I should spend The infinitesimal time I have now On things I’ll supposedly care for Moments prior to lying on my deathbed.
P.S. my original idea was to write something using the 269th prettypic from my @azureabyss prompt acc and then use that to help me write an innocent love story between a raindrop and a human girl (don't judge me- there's literally a movie out there about love between a human and a bee). Anyways, yeah, this is not that...idk why this happened...or even what happened. ~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~ Materialized Dream •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Lost in an abyss of inspiration- a world carrying too many things to write about in one armful, a young lady sits in a dim room with only a single lamp lit in the corner. Before her, lying in wait on the cherry-stained, beech wood desktop is an open journal- pages blank. With her legs folded underneath her on the chair, elbows leaning forward, and cheeks resting on the knuckles of her closed hands, she boredly stares out the window, letting her gaze unfocus. The falling rain blurs in her vision.
Her thoughts want to wander, yet her mind reins them in, not allowing them to drift too far from within the safety of their home. Thus, the thoughts as if put in time-out, stay there and do nothing but pout, but when the mind isn’t paying full attention, they’ll sneakily go out beyond the set boundaries, trying to explore as much as they can, then run back before their absence has been noticed. One mischievous explorer, however, roamed too far and didn’t come back for a while.
~~~~~~~~~~ RAINDROP POV:
I seem to have found a lost child. Though, perhaps she’s the one who found me first. I was falling from the sky, as per usual on a rainy day, for I take my job seriously and don’t laze about like those drought fiends. Then out of nowhere, I see an outstretched hand reaching towards the sky appearing directly on my course for land! Now, this unplanned scenario is playing out where, after this little girl caught me in her palm, I am confused as to how to proceed from this destination I wasn’t destined to be.
Oh no! Now she’s twirling! Ugh, her spinning is making me dizzy! And the racket! Oh this strange noise doesn’t help at all! I prefer the melody of thunder to sound in my ears, not human roars! What do they call this outrageous echo?
“Laughter, silly,” a young voice giggles.
“Ugh! Yes, laughter. That’s it. Wait, what? Who said that?"
*The hand that holds the raindrop rises up to meet face to face with the little girl* "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What do you think you’re doing?! Rainfall isn’t meant to rise!"
“I just wanted to see you up close,” the girl with joy ringing in her voice says whilst observing the droplet with curious eyes.
“How can you hear me?” the splash of water asks with suspicion.
“I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause I’m not human,” the girl shrugs.
“Not human? How is that possible?! You’re clearly wearing their flesh! You talk like them! And even laugh like them!” the raindrop counters.
“Nuh-uh! See, look what I can do!” shouts the girl as she raises her other hand for the raindrop to see. The fingers begin to disappear- no, not disappear, but warp into wisps like the tail ends of a ghost’s gown perhaps. Her skin color fades and seems to blend in with the gray surroundings how a chameleon would. Soon, her hand returns to its normal appearance.
“Wha-? How? How did you do that? What are you?”
“Ha! You believe me now!” she says victoriously, then answers, “I am simply a dream created by my human. I have tons of brothers and sisters too, but we don’t have our own names. They just call us ‘thoughts’ or ‘daydreams’”
“Dream? Thoughts? How is that possible? Are you telling me that all the people we see aren’t even all humans?” the raindrop begins to mumble to itself as it speaks.
The girl, now a bit bored by the conversation, says, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
The raindrop and the dream are startled by a grating shriek and a loud thump. Turning every which way, they look around for the source. That’s when they spot a crow getting back up on its feet in front of the tree near the mailbox.
~~~~~~~~~~ CROW POV:
I. Ran. Into. A. Tree. Why? Because I saw some sorcery going on, that’s why! Like seriously, one second I was flying to this tree to get some shelter from the rain and the next, SPLAT, I crashed straight into the thing all because I looked away for a bit.
I peer over towards the human wearing a yellow raincoat, hat, and rubber boots. I coulda sworn I just saw its hand disappear and then reappear like glints of sun but without the shine. It seems to be talking to its other one. Oh, here it comes. It’s walking over here. Oh no...is it one of them crazy people who worship crows or something? Not again! Why is it always me they try to mess with?! I gotta get out of here! Accursed storm! The rain is pouring harder and my wings are already soaked, so I don’t make it into the air in time before it approaches me.
“It’s a crow,” the dream says as she slowly walks up to the bird struggling with its wet wings.
“So it is,” says the raindrop, “Why are you just walking up to it? What if it attacks us?!”
“It’ll be fine. Not like it can hurt me or anything- if it can even see me that is.”
“Oh right...but still, crows are such filthy creatures. In all my time working for the water cycle, I’ve only landed on a crow once. And I never wanna touch one again!” the raindrop ripples- an equivalent to goosebumps or perhaps shivers up the spine.
“I won’t let him touch you. I just wanna see a crow up close. I’ve never been out this far and haven’t seen much of anything.” A gleam reawakens in the dream’s eyes as curiosity resurfaces from within her very being.
“Caw! Caw!” The crow cries for it hasn’t yet learned that almost nothing can kill a dream’s curiosity.
A dream steps through a storm to meet a bird widely feared as a creature of evil. However, soon, lightning strikes down far off in the distance at the same time a little girl starts vanishing. The dream child begins to fade. Her form, as if confused as to what it is supposed to be in the first place, distorts, warping back and forth between the shape of a human and a cloud of fog. A droplet of water slips off her palm and falls to the ground. Now, only a transparent strand of thought exists among the rain, across from a nightmarish crow, and hovering above a poor raindrop who lost her way in the human world.
The dreamy wisp, seemingly weighed down by gravity but tugged by the winds, is pulled away by a mysterious force into the nearby countryside cabin. Inside a particular room, sits a young lady whose head rests on one arm lying on a desk- the other arm splayed out across a journal open to a blank page. Drool slowly streaks down one side of her chin. Just as her eyelids begin to flutter awake, a dream who had wandered to the outside world returns to its realm of imagination, reuniting with the thoughts just like it.
The lady awakens with a heavy yawn and a stretch of the limbs. Whilst sluggishly wiping her eyes from their sleep and lapping up the drool with her tongue, last night's dream dawns upon her. Suddenly, her sight darts out the window- still raining, yet morning light somehow seeps in through the glass sparkling with raindrops. She follows a single droplet with her gaze as it slides down meticulously in its strange, squiggly pattern. Shaking her head out from its daze, she then picks up a pen and hastily begins to jot down words she won’t allow to escape- thoughts she hopes stay long enough to enter the papery doorway of her journal and into the story she will create.
Within the cavern of creative thought, You construct a tunnel of clouds- A path to a labyrinthine paradise northbound, Revealing wonders as you cross, From one edge of sky to another Heaven inside the hollows, where: Dangle from the ceiling Of a mind imaginative- Spheres of swirling wind Shuffling zephyrs of vague ideas, Raindrops hang on wispy walls Holding cascades of knowledge, There, too, snowflakes caught Between the strands of fog, Are memories frozen in prior beginnings- What now seem like antiquities, To a soul wandering infinity, Through a tunnel constructed of clouds Within the cavern of creative thought
I wish I could physically touch the emotions of your soul which are poured into the songs you create- more preferably, I wish to feel our hearts intertwined again and perhaps skin on skin. Nevertheless, here I am, desperately trying to hear the music over the rain that pours instead. I put myself into a position where I can only listen to your art from miles away through timeworn headphones that don’t translate the beat quite right, because I ruined something that was important- us.
I realized what I destroyed when it was too late to attempt to fix it, so, now, on days I miss you too much, I walk with your voice in my ears and appreciate what I don’t deserve to hear in person. I listen to your songs with lyrics insinuating my presence and extinction. I use those outpourings of emotion in them to punish my heart whom I wished had beaten more in the moments before our moments were gone. And I know that you know I do this repeatedly even though I haven’t said to you a single word since then, because I know you just know me too well. That speaks more to me than these albums do, for you knowing that much and still not reaching out means you definitely hate the idea of me crawling back, as if me hopelessly moving on hands and knees can somehow piggyback me through a portal in time, yet at meeting you upon my arrival, you already know the future.
‘Tis the reason I huddle into this new life I built out of cardboard boxes labeled failure. I lost the only home I had which was you and never dared to find it, settling for homelessness destitute of love and affection. In my backpack, only these dingy headphones with just the left side functional (if they’re not around my neck like a noose that is), the clothes I wore the night we separated, and a photo of you, smiling as we hold hands on a sun-shiny day, frozen behind the clear fold inside my cheap wallet full of air.
I roam these broken streets like an immortal pretending to be a beggar- immortally regretful and begging to the you I idolize in my head anyways. You once taught me a word synonymous with immortal, but that blend of letters is too beautiful to express the shattering state I threw myself in, so I often, instead, tune in to your piece titled, “Amaranthine Passion” and hate myself for not giving my all to seek such a timeless love story with you back when I underestimated how long a door of opportunity would stay open for a vault of potential soulmates.
Heads up: the POVs change ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Cyan Rose ~•~•~•~•~•~ There lives a lady down the street who tends to the most beautiful garden. Besides herself, she never lets anyone in or out. Now you must be wondering how I even know of its existence, but I assure you I've never snuck onto her property, if that’s what you were assuming. It’s not like I would just hide up in the branches of a tree to observe from afar her gentle and nurturing nature. Nope, I just see the world through her eyes sometimes. What I mean when saying so is that I have a special ability, a superpower if you will. It allows me to hop into the mind of someone and pretty much experience what it is like to be them for a while. And if that’s not quite understandable to you, let’s put it this way: it’s like their brain is a 4D movie theatre where I can sit back, relax and enjoy watching everything play out just the way she sees things while also listening to what she hears as if her ears were the audio system. The 4D aspect comes in when I can smell, taste and feel everything she can, though what I perceive of these three particular senses is way less than what she actually perceives herself- which can be both a blessing and a curse of this ability. I’m basically a parasite who sucks at its job, though that’s an awful way to put it and I’d rather not call myself that, so just forget about me saying that parasitic part.
Anyways, let me get back to my original topic. As I said, there is a lady who lives down the street who owns and cares dearly for a garden that looks like it came out of a fantasy book and is reserved only for a royal family. Everyday, she treats the plants she’s cultivated in this royally decorated garden as her own flesh and blood. It’s so heartwarming to see someone cherish nature so highly in this world captivated by modern technology. I know that through her eyes, the petals of each flower, the leaf of each tree, and the shells of each seed glow in the light with an angelic sheen. I know that when she walks through the paths crisscrossing everywhere like a maze, she’ll sometimes close her eyes to embrace the sounds of even the smallest of creatures buzzing or chirping all the way to even the thunderous roars far off foreshadowing a storm on its way. I know that when she bends down to sniff a flower, how she doesn’t even need to, for she can smell their scents from a mile away and knows every flower’s fragrance by heart. I know that when she picks the ripe fruit and vegetables from their stems that she’ll thank each and every one of them for the delicious food they’ve gifted her. I know that when she decides to remove the worn gardening gloves from her hands, she’ll enjoy all the strange textures every plant has- she’ll act like she’s patting the heads of grandchildren she hasn’t seen in a long time, and that even if a thorn pricks her finger, drawing blood, she’ll smile and act as if it was only an accident in which a grandchild hugged her too hard. I know all these things because I’ve seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt every living memory she’s made there (at least all the ones for as long as I’ve been around in this neighborhood). Analyzing the world through her perspective is my favorite thing to do and I cherish the experience as much as she does her garden.
However, there is one thing I don’t quite understand about her. Now, I know you’ve probably been taught before how parents aren’t supposed to have favorite kids (and that pertains to grandparents and grandchildren too), but let’s all just be honest here: everyone has a favorite and yeah, maybe favorites can change often (I mean I change my favorite color all the time), but for the most part, you're always gonna like one more than the other. There’s this specific plant she cares about more deeply than the rest. As such, I can only assume it’s her favorite. The first time I saw it, I believed it to be the most magical and enchantingly beautiful living thing I ever did see (which is saying something ‘cause I’ve seen more than you could possibly imagine- did I forget to mention I'm immortal?), and I’m 100 percent certain that if you saw it you’d think the same.
This breathtaking piece of nature was none other than a cyan rose- the only natural one of its kind in all of the universe. Selcouth it was. Its petals, freckled with glittery spots that catch every ray of sun, gives one the illusion of it being from another dimension- as if the celestial entities of earth constantly shower it in its individual spotlight, at the very least, for nothing they could ever do would be something worth a fraction of the transcendental rose’s time in all its teal shaded glory. And oh! When there’s a morning shower, its beauty is remarkably heightened, for the dew remaining on its freshly drizzled blossom makes it seem like, perhaps, the most ravishing ice sculpture, drawing you in to admire the flower’s every perfectly chiseled detail at each possible angle. I could go on and on, describing how beyond beautiful this cyan rose is but I’m sure you get at least some idea by now what I’m trying to get across, so I’ll skip ahead a bit in my story.
There lived a woman on a planet called earth, in a little suburban house, down the street from a man possessing special gifts. The man knew of the woman, but the woman did not know of the man, or so he thought. For a long time, the man had used his special gifts to admire the woman for who and all that she was. One day, the woman came and knocked on his door- something the man never expected to happen. After waking from a momentous daze, he got up to go answer the knock, and as the door slowly unfolded an opening to the outside world, he saw, standing there, someone who he soon invited in.
She walked inside with a gentle smile planted on her face and sat down on a living room chair. Of course, not even two seconds later, the man walked in with a flustered gait and asked if she’d like any tea (for he knew that was her favorite to drink, especially whilst sitting amongst a bed of flowers). She politely refused and drew him into all seriousness as she announced having a request to ask of him. He, too, sat down and with his body language, tried to show her his utmost sincerity. And appreciate it, she did.
She explained to him her circumstances- how, in her garden stands tall a cyan rose she’s been cultivating for generations, how, that rose is more than what could ever meet the eye, how, her single wish from deep in her heart was to stay forever with her garden, how, she found a way to become one with it, and how she had been cultivating a rose by daily feeding it portions of her soul. It was at that part of the explanation where the man shockingly realized her intentions. She planned to shed her human form to become the cyan rose so that she may live eternally with all that she loves.
“Then...you know about me, correct? That’s why you came to me specifically- because you know what I am, what I can do?” the man questioned.
“Indeed. I knew everything from the beginning.”
“ *clears throat out of embarrassment* I see. Um..just for the record...sorry for..um..spying all these years.”
She laughed lightly, amused by his awkward behavior, “Yes, well, apology accepted. Anyhow, I visited today to ask if you would undertake my responsibility of gardening. All you need to do is complete what you’ve seen me do all this time. I assure you it’ll only be tough at the start but you’ll grow to love it.”
He surveys her features for it is a face he rarely ever saw (because he was always looking from the inside) and he wishes to remember it clearly. Then, he gathers up a genuine smile as if his heart was utterly melted with little effort, and says, “I would be honored to.”
The lady stood up with a nod, knowing her task there was done, thanked the man for everything, and began heading for the exit. However, the man had one last thing to add, thus he softly tapped her shoulder. The woman turned back in answer only to hear the man warmly say, “You know, cyan is my favorite color and I don’t think it’s ever gonna change.”