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08-26-2016, 04:09 PM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
“If that wasn’t a dark hour, Mauja,” and his heart whispered, treacherously, was it? Because, as the cogs and the wheels turned, as the machinery of body and mind stubbornly defied the logical outcome of his situation—and in the way of his twisting thoughts, he compared this to what had been,
all the while knowing that comparisons is how you suck the color and joy out of life.
It's how you wilt all those little flowers with you aura and drain the warmth from the sun. It's how you take the meaning out of a moment, it's how you create distance; it's how you say your suffering isn't bad enough.
It's what makes you say in cold fury that someone knows nothing of your murders, or what makes you think that there have been darker hours, and that darker hours will surely come; Mauja was beyond fooling himself. He knew of the cold, frigid beast living deep within him, a thing not a separate entity but rather the most base, most cruel facet of his personality. It was his capacity for pure evil.
Calling it a monster was just a way to not take responsibility for himself.
“.. then I don’t know what is.”
And I won't enlighten you.
He didn't want his past clogging up his future; he didn't want.. he didn't want this to be all about him. While Mauja had lain—for all intents and purposes—dead, Tembovu had suffered, too. While Mauja had been unconscious, Tembovu had had to live with the darkness of Mauja's brooding and angst. (Like a suicide one wakes from.)
“Gods, I am glad you’re immortal,” and it smelled of forgiveness; his soul strained, yearned, begged for the words, but still they didn't come, not explicitly. There were chuckles spilling into the white depths of his thick mane, little trembling pushes from a plush muzzle against his neck. Reverberations. Ripples. Like life whispering against him, despite the way the minuscule tremors caused his pain to flare.
“I love you, my friend.”
His heart, weak and tired and working on too little fluids, spasmed weakly. It was nauseating; his vision blurred and blackened for a moment, and the world rocked as Tembovu settled against his back.
The softest of sighs expelled his agony, a sound barely worthy of being called a moan as the touch sent broken nerves screaming into his brain; breathlessly he laid in the embrace of his friend, waiting for the other's breathing to stop tormenting him. Waiting for his body to acclimatize. Waiting for the pattern of their breaths to merge. There was no question about it: Tembovu was asleep, the soft wash of his breath steady against Mauja's neck.
"I love you too," he whispered once his mind had stopped laying in agonized fragments, knowing that the other couldn't hear him.
Then he, too, fell into the dark depths of sleep.
[ The end. <3 ]
all the while knowing that comparisons is how you suck the color and joy out of life.
It's how you wilt all those little flowers with you aura and drain the warmth from the sun. It's how you take the meaning out of a moment, it's how you create distance; it's how you say your suffering isn't bad enough.
It's what makes you say in cold fury that someone knows nothing of your murders, or what makes you think that there have been darker hours, and that darker hours will surely come; Mauja was beyond fooling himself. He knew of the cold, frigid beast living deep within him, a thing not a separate entity but rather the most base, most cruel facet of his personality. It was his capacity for pure evil.
Calling it a monster was just a way to not take responsibility for himself.
“.. then I don’t know what is.”
And I won't enlighten you.
He didn't want his past clogging up his future; he didn't want.. he didn't want this to be all about him. While Mauja had lain—for all intents and purposes—dead, Tembovu had suffered, too. While Mauja had been unconscious, Tembovu had had to live with the darkness of Mauja's brooding and angst. (Like a suicide one wakes from.)
“Gods, I am glad you’re immortal,” and it smelled of forgiveness; his soul strained, yearned, begged for the words, but still they didn't come, not explicitly. There were chuckles spilling into the white depths of his thick mane, little trembling pushes from a plush muzzle against his neck. Reverberations. Ripples. Like life whispering against him, despite the way the minuscule tremors caused his pain to flare.
“I love you, my friend.”
His heart, weak and tired and working on too little fluids, spasmed weakly. It was nauseating; his vision blurred and blackened for a moment, and the world rocked as Tembovu settled against his back.
The softest of sighs expelled his agony, a sound barely worthy of being called a moan as the touch sent broken nerves screaming into his brain; breathlessly he laid in the embrace of his friend, waiting for the other's breathing to stop tormenting him. Waiting for his body to acclimatize. Waiting for the pattern of their breaths to merge. There was no question about it: Tembovu was asleep, the soft wash of his breath steady against Mauja's neck.
"I love you too," he whispered once his mind had stopped laying in agonized fragments, knowing that the other couldn't hear him.
Then he, too, fell into the dark depths of sleep.
[ The end. <3 ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
