Nice To Meet You Too !!! My Aforementioned Irl Has Started Reading It So I'm Waiting For Him To Get Partway

The Curse Forevermore

It is a curse of the land that we live on, A curse of the world that we inhabit. A slow, dripping venom, enchanted with a power, No less effective than a deadly serpent, With the ability to kill a god.

Look at the stars, pray once, Mutter a few words, hope again. "It will be better," a chant. Is it? Will it be?

The curse of mortals, The curse of youth. The curse of future, The curse that has always been. Or has it?

It is simple, a falling star at midnight. A drop of water dripping into a lake. For now, it is no longer a drop, Simply one amongst millions. Now simply unnamed.

Oh, to be forgotten, is one's greatest curse. For what can be worse, Than to speak and be unheard, To paint and to be unseen, To sing a note and have it lost in the wrinkles of time, Lost, forever. Oh, to be forgotten.

I believe, It is the curse, That has two young hearts smile to each other, Knowing, truly, that neither mean it at all. Knowing, deep inside them, that it is all but a lie, An integral one. For it is nigh impossible for shattered glass to serve its purpose as a bowl. And it knows.

I believe, it is the curse, That those two young hearts smile to each other, Knowing, that it is a lie, But smiling, smiling until they no longer have to pretend, A waltz with knives. For it is no less dangerous.

Looking at the stars, The two souls smile to one another, Closer to freedom, but not so, Closer to happiness, but not so, Closer to their dreams, but not so, Forever in their souls, it lives on.

It is the curse, I believe, That the joy, and the love, and the hope, Live solely on in hearts. It is where it lives on.

optimisation

i've been thinking about this for a while, and i even wrote about it as more of a rant, but maybe i've stewed on it enough to be able to talk about it in a more refined manner. i'm watching a video about conformity in social media and books, and it mirrors my thought process in a sense. i've been frustrated by how everyone seemed to read the same books, and even though i was once a part of that crowd, as a means to be a part of the excitement, a part of everyone, it felt eventually a bit too monotonous. the disadvantage of appealing to everyone's tastes is that you regress towards the mean. please overfit your books, and the readers with the right amount of noise will find you perfect for them. i've leaned into my tastes and the weirdness of them, and i truly do love absurdity and surrealism in my art. what's art without some boundaries being pushed?

in the video, she talks about the hesitation to ‘try’ something new, to find, seek, discover, and instead the appeal of choosing what the masses have approved, and enable yourselves to get a decent, palatable, and risk-free experience. the one thing i have learned from finance is that there is no return without risk, and in that case, money is quite an important thing to risk. i don't believe a few hours of your time are too much to risk for a piece of art that may affect the way you view the world.

this optimisation problem can stick in your head, as a way of desiring to maximise your experience in the world. i want to achieve the most i can, have the most fun i can, live the most i can, and there's no better way to ruin all these goals than this thought process. there cannot be any enjoyment with this feel hovering like an omen, reminding you to enjoy experience live more more more. breathe, listen to the air flow, feel your arms and legs, and remember that we exist here. we're lucky to. (quite literally, do you know the probabilities?) imagine everything you've ever experienced, and know that most people will not have felt what you have, and that it is you here. trust yourself, nobody knows you better. what do you want to do tomorrow?

Rowaelin Masterlist

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Kinktober 2021 (on hiatus)

Mr. and Mrs. Whitethorn’s six Yulemas

some people say they wish the adventures they had were real and that they lament the lack of it and i cannot help but think if it were real i would not survive and maybe i am only meant to tell the stories that they live and when brick heck said "i think there are two types of people: those who are meant to live, and those who are meant to read about them, and i am the latter"

maybe i am the latter

ohh okay thought we were in the same board haha. best of luck to you too!! you'll do great i'm sure of it <33

(also realised i wasn't following you?? weird. anyway hope it's okay to send asks here)

we are not in the same board if it helps

my heart is lost adrift in a sea far from land oh, what I would give to float to a beach astray

there lies no comfort here out in the cold vastness of the water oh, what i would give to find a land to lay on

shouts to the sky are futile no god rescues me but to be honest anyone who would save me would be no less

just saw that in our last convo in this blog we were both in 11th grade. you are graduating college this week...where did the time go

wow .. dont say that to me im still not sure i believe it

i'm holding you to that orange !!!

new pfp ❓️❓️ ORANGE ❓️❓️❓️❓️

I've had a Halloween matching pfp since the last 2 or 3 years now so i figured I should change it at Some point 😭

i hope my soul bleeds beautiful

for what is- what is art, if not the blood of our souls

A Waltz of Powers

Love Hurts as Nothing Else

Hearts lie heavy,

Always weighted down,

By the grief, and love, and beauty,

A gentle sunrise on a small town.

So has Syrae's,

He knows no love without pain, or hurt

For him, it is eternal.

No one without the other.

A rainstorm on a winter night,

Fog clouding eyes on hills,

Tears, flowing, a constant stream,

That is how he lives his years,

A nightmare or a hellish daydream.

The stream never ceases,

Relenting only when the other stream,

The stream of power

Is let loose,

With its wake of destruction to follow.

The world is fortunate the stream lies in his hands,

For it would long have been dust,

If it was any other.

A Chance at Recklessness

A landscape is called barren,

When it lies devoid of life.

If that were true, Autumn would be no less.

A person whose soul was more extreme

Than the driest desert,

Or the highest peak.

In a world of beauty to the eye,

She is blind,

For nothing can be beautiful that is not appreciated

And nothing can be appreciated that does not deserve it.

Autumn is loath to believe anything does.

Many objects are loved, in this world,

As a soft rainbow in a sunny sky,

A chirp from a bird in a quiet night,

Or a gentle breeze in the midst of summer.

None appeal, to the stone that is her heart,

She would simply call a diamond,

For what beauty can the most beautiful object see,

When there is nothing more so than itself?

Love From the Heartless

There has never been a time,

Where Autumn and Syrae

Have not loved each other.

It is an absolute truth.

Does the sun rise each day,

At dawn, as clockwork?

It would be foolish to ask,

As it is known, that it does.

Does water quench thirst?

Or fill the sea?

Does a lion hunt a deer?

Nobody would dare to ask.

It is the same, with the two of them,

Because there has never been a time,

When Autumn has not been at Syrae's side,

And he at hers,

It is known.

Most Stories Never Wish to Begin

They who are known,

they who are envied,

For being known from a story,

Are often envious of those not.

It is rarely a boon to be seen,

To be known in such a way,

That a mere mention of your name evokes the thought of you.

Oh, to be forgotten.

Syrae desires for joy,

Good, in the world.

There is rarely ever enough,

Through his eyes,

And all he can ever do is try,

Him against evil.

It feels so, that it is only ever him.

The force of good has always been too small,

Yet it oft prevails,

So is the force of it.

So is its power.

So is his.

The Inevitability of Inevitability

As inevitable the victory of the kind is,

So is the rise of cruel.

It is as thorns on roses,

Always present, ready to prick,

Only sated with the taste of blood,

No lesser than a bloodthirsty beast.

And so, however much so Syrae would wish otherwise,

It rises.

Much to his disappointment, and chagrin,

It grows.

And his is the only power strong enough.

Souls, and hearts, full of life,

Laughter and joy and smiles,

Are what he prizes most,

Light prevailing over darkness.

That is the cost of being kind,

Kindness tested in forges with more heat than the sun,

And more difficult than wars,

For if there a hundred swords,

Made of the strongest iron,

Not one will refrain from drawing blood,

None, but a human,

Forged in no furnace,

But the furnace of life.

Destruction, Unimpeded

It is usual for life to grow,

Thrive, in its settlements,

Fester, until it simply is,

The place inseparable from the living.

And just as usual for it to be destroyed.

But even the tallest of trees,

Is no adversary,

For it is but ash in the wind,

Simply a victim to flames blazing,

Crawling up its bark.

Fire makes its own path,

Burning through even the thickest of bushes,

And the toughest of trees.

It has no opponent strong enough to withstand its power,

None powerful enough to face it down.

But one crafty enough, its victory over the flames guaranteed,

A flood to the ignited fuel,

But when it is not present,

Nothing can survive its wrath.

And as half the world burns down,

The water too far to attempt extinguishing,

Syrae's heart hurts.

It hurts too much.

Guilt and blame,

Regret flaming in his heart,

For even if his stream was no flood,

It was the best there was. He was the best there was.

And he failed.

The Fierceness of Betrayal

Oft, swords in the back sink in deep to the hilt,

Blood spews from the chest, tears from the heart,

Until there are no more tears to cry.

Regret is often strongest during this time,

As is anger,

For how would one feel,

To turn eyes to a hand holding a dagger,

Sunken deep into flesh,

To see a smile made stronger by love,

Love they had given themselves.

Syrae knows not,

Of the pain heading his way,

The tears his eyes are yet to shed,

The blood he wishes he had shed from his own chest,

A pound of flesh he would pay,

If only to save hundreds.

Regret to flare of his own ignorance,

And anger of the loss of trust,

Both not far in his future,

Eyes to see a familiar conniving smirk,

Throat to gasp at the surprise.

Sweet, Sweet Blood

Autumn wishes, against all hope or luck,

That it could not be so,

That she did not feel so.

But she did.

It was a quaint pleasure,

To sink a blade into deep flesh,

See a drop of blood dribble out,

And then a flood pour through.

The joy on her face shone bright,

The eyes twinkling with sharp sadism,

For it was only her who smiled,

As the screams rung through the night.

Unrelenting.

It was only when she tired of smiling,

That she set him on fire.

Her stream of fire. As was Syrae's of water.

A Waltz of Powers

They dance for hours on end,

Her flames a stinging barb into his life,

A stark warning of death,

One he cannot ignore.

He stands strong,

His face tinged with weariness and despair,

For how do you unleash upon one that you have loved,

That you have given your heart to,

That you have trusted?

She harbours no such fear,

No such regard as he does.

Who is the better person,

The one with a conscience,

Or the one without?

For if the latter wins,

They do so without honour,

But in the end,

Is honour really as important as life?

Or is it nothing but dust in the face of the enormity of life,

The possibilities it holds,

The beauty it encompasses?

They waltz for hours,

Each step a perfect match,

Each move directly matched by the other,

A waltz to be admired, to be watched.

A waltz of powers.