Asterites - Blog Posts

" 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐂𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 ; your dress is beautiful. i would not change a thing. " // @asterites

𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐒𝐓 ?    —    did it hurt to see, to hear, to smell, to taste, to touch ?  did it hurt, to be and not to be ?  yes.  it did, indeed, every day.  she witnessed afflictions of that which she should not have, but a fleuret woman was ordained to stand between the visible and invisible, the confessed and unconfessed, the yoke of human-flow riding through her, the moon, the stars, the sun, trampling o’er them with all their might, all they had in store.  the misery, the revulsion, the ashes of a village or the thunders between gears, putrefaction stuffed into where it should not be, the embers of death beneath her bare heels.  the progression, the regression, the stasis crystalline of encased einherjar.  the undreamed, and the lucid dreams.  all that taken and shaken deep into the bones, the moon so close to bleed it all out / the stars so close to blink out.  was this what mother wished for her daughters, the long-winded thread of barbed wire wrapped around their golden heads ?  the taking of sin, and giving back oblivion ?  was this her doting parenthood ?  “ i hope she did not.  may etro bless her heart to rest peacefully. ”  o etro, o fallen light,  did it hurt to exist ?  did it hurt to give light and receive back every sin committed, every fear felt, every laughter strangled off the throat ?  we all would carry dying inside of us, the way the oxygen shriveled us till all that was left was a little glint, leaving or hiding away from etro’s clay.  “ or have you…. have you seen her ?  out there ? ” // @asterites

𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒. or at least that is what the ancient scriptures had dubbed these augury of souls. the broken fractured of light, unseen by all, existing inside the aortic construct of pulsing organism. t'was the gift of a desperate goddess, an unholy sentiment donned upon the flesh of the first women and her children. how fascinating it was to understand : we are all born rotten before we are made pure. holiness, sacristy, neither would have existed without the beautiful chaos that trifles that of heavenly order. the words of the dead undoubtedly guides the stars more intimately then that of life, for soft-chosen reservation is bereft of conventual guidance. ❝ whether it be regret or fear, the concept of non-existence is still quite terrifying. they cling to the shadows and covet in what is familiar. they reject death as fervently as life had rejected them. it only makes my heart ache more. ❞ in the layers of deep affinity, she unsheds the truth of sacrificial burdens —— it suffocated her. deeply. violently. the horrors that she has seen, the things she dares not repeat, and perhaps even her own glorification of bedlam did nothing but weaken her inner psyche. say selene, was it the same for you too ? when the blood moon rises and sheds its light to the world, when humanity looks to you for answers, do they shed their sins onto you ? did they just expect their pain to just disappear ? to answer your calling : did it hurt to exist ? ❝ when mother departed in this world, do you think she had any regrets ? ❞

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 ;    whilst this defied her suchness as celestial body, orbit-shackled to natural arrangements.  selene was born to catch fallen stars ;  to keep a globe in place which long refused order, one so desperate to shatter and drown into its self-inflicted calamities, its wars, its addictions for her crystalline tears to numb the powerlessness.  burdens unbeknownst to you, this maiden child, too, had yet to taste cinder, touch fire, behold a blaze, whereas it was her utmost purpose to witness the world wholly in all its terrific stages, and to accept all impending marring.  she was not to be spared, she was to be wrought for gods.  this sisterhood required both children to be people, but they soon would find each other bereft of human components.  nevermore an exchange of delights, caught in the midst of crossfires one so young be far too naive to. a day so dreadful she enclosed her little star between her arms and hoped for this week to ever last.  freeze into stasis /  safely eternal  / sheltered and unstained.    " no one will, i'm afraid.  it's always been you, and you will always be the one i shall share desserts and pick flowers with.  but you needn't fret over me.  i learn to take care of myself— "    little effort was invested to repress trembling breath, a rasp song of lament.  (  still but a child.  still a sister.  )    " promise me to be good. " 

𝐍𝐎𝐗 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐋𝐒. the moon to the stars. the virtuous to the luxuriate. one bounded by bygone oath and the other a mere spare. in this soliloquy adorned by destiny, unknowing asteria can only cling to her own frustration. her discontent immerging from childish inconvenience, unable to let go the sister to whom she held so dear. the mere embodiment of youthful ignorance, the tips of starlight's fingers only knows how to flee. runaway and hide, while shrinking away from any known responsibility. she simply could not understand, for how could she when you had shielded her wings so that she may know flight. always always so selfless, how could she see anything passed the obedience you solemnly shoulder —— you are still a child, selene. you are. you are her sister first, before you were someone else's oracle.

❝ ——what if i give you all my pudding cups, can't you stay more then a week ? ❞ see how she begs, her pouty lips bartering her known delights. ❝ i don't want to share you. who else is going to pick flowers with you and sneak the strawberry candy to you during prayer time ? ❞ such a spoiled child, yet genuine all the same. ❝ sometimes you forget to eat too, so who is going to take care of you all the way over there if we are all here ? it's so silly. ❞

𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄’𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 , 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄.    the girl too young    /    the cross too large    /    the divinations too terrible to be bound to.  though, devastating to hear your plea, there was no such thing as a saying in the dictation of your sister's upbringing, no power over decisions she could dare make independently. and still, tomorrow,  would she invent an illusion of choice, for if she did not, how ought a bird thrive in captivity ?  how ought a flower bloom without the light ?  how ought selene illuminate the night without the sun and without the stars ?  “ stella… ”    a whisper so soft t’was barely voice-borne as she grasped two small hands with her own, gently enough she might, any moment, break apart.    “ i’m sorry… i wish i could stay, really… ”    (  i want to stay here, with you, with ravus, with mother.  i want to stay, but i can only obey.  )    “ we’ll be spending all of the upcoming week together before i depart, alright ? ”

❝ that's not fair, sister. i need you way more then solheim, why do you have to go ? solheim is way too far and way tooo boring, you just should stay here. i will hide you in my closet, it's plenty big. ❞ @moonichor

👁️👄👁️ excuse me sis, do you have the time to talk about our lord and savior : bhunivelze. 👁️👄👁️

luna vc : why yes sis, i serve him 👁️👄👁️

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 / 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐘 ;    some sacred agonies were simply overbearing, over-gobbling, the cosmos eager to sunder and disassemble.  one side too real, the other too dead.  too holy, too eldritch.  they took root and vine as rotten artery-roads through a gilded body.  though your words rang true, your softness lied.  always, always were there lies. ( like hers, like anyone else's.  ) along with the ghosts you soothed you faded before her, and to this, she was regrettably blind.  oh, what feats she would undertake  ---  moving mountains, parting the seas, bending the skies for her twinkling asteria's happiness !  perhaps, this might have been the reason she shan’t know the hidden meaning. your ailment a secret by volition of cold light.    “ fear does even plague ghosts, it is unfortunate such inflicts those who have yet to meet their end, in turn.  ”   herein the irony manifested between two fleuret women and their empathic attributes, their shared compounds tempering sorrow like a balm to a bruise.  hers, a gift to the living    /    yours, to the unliving.  she did rather not admit her particular understanding of a ghost's reasoning for its lingering obstinacy, and that in her own dismays she would stir waters to tremendous dimensions.    “ even so —  i could not blame them.  the light of yonder is too bright and terrifying, too cryptic for them.  what else will it cleanse aside from memory ?  some may not be able to let go of their pain… ”    and their wailing may never be heard, in silence they must weep. 

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 for those whose eyes sees the unknown. the markings of a goddess, it’s plague clouding her vision towards a death-screamed spiral. it suffocates her. the desperation of fallen corpses clinging onto her soul : hungry for vengeance, craving for existence, and when they speak it was honey sung words reaped with veiled treachery. the chaos in her eyes is marred with blood stained tears, yet the night star no longer mourns for its injustice. instead, she carries on pretending she is unbothered / pretending she is above the terror which torments the earth. smile, play her role, she has always been good at acting and running away.  ❝  ——  hmm, what do you think they say ?  ❞  look how patiently the stars deflects their response. her dialect spoken with an air of spacious wonder, dancing on the cusp of religious taboo, with falsehood innocence to match.  ❝  the dead who remains... often feels very wronged.  ❞  there will always be some semblance of truth to her words, but because you are her holy sister, she offers you nothing less than sincerity.  ❝  they do not want to part with the living, so they choose to ignore the summoning of the light above. it hurts them too you see, so they hurt others. or at least some of them do. many of them simply hides. ❞

“ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 , 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑 ?  are they reveling in bliss, or do they agonize? “ // @asterites

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 .    //    ACCEPTING .

‘  the handsome fellow that’s trying to rescue you from a hideous fate is never wrong.  ’   //    @asterites​​​

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.    that said, while the wit with which it was conveyed, and the context thereof, robbed her embarrassingly of all her excuses, it contradicted with each principle an oracle absorbed and internalized.  hence, her first impulse was to dismiss  —   but what exactly provoked it ?  that her fate threatened a hideous undertone ?  that he, the silly hero, had all intentions to rescue her ?    (  or that he was ... handsome … ?  )    none of these points were untruths and, still, she argued.  still, she made a case for dispute  :    “ he is wrong.  i needn’t be rescued from a particular destiny that i have not chosen  — ”    but with the lakes of fire in their home of darkness, with the heads of conquered children at a gunpoint, and their betrayed roots, had it been a free decision, or unsought necessity ?   ‘ i chose this ‘    on repeat and with effort, the line transformed to conviction, did it not ?  a conviction as real as one to serve an empire which, more than once, manufactured tools out of the flesh of loved ones.  a conviction of devoting to a life of conserved rite.  a conviction that, rather than following survival instincts, there was a choice, at all.

notice, a frown pinching into pallor and a crooked line that ought to resemble a smile, but did it terribly so, marred her pretty visage as her spoken point dilated to the nonsensical.  the denial so outstretched, it portrayed no longer her own instilled thought.    “ it is not that i want him to do this for me, or that he should continue it.  moreover, he is quite hypocritical ... ”    you see, every day, solheim’s high priestess lied through her teeth.  about a good, giving godhead and redeeming salvation under the throne of his mercy ;  about worship and a cause greater than the worshipers.  every day, she lied about picking up the skeletal remains of a dormant faith, and promised to her subjects a myth cased in crystal.  in turn, she lowered her secrets into the coffin of her past, in hopes the valkyric goddess would find and care for them behind valhalla’s fog and the rotting dreams of sorrowful mwynn.  then she smothered that memory, until her woes emptied and interchanged with robes and a scepter invoking divination, forgot what other purpose her hands served than to reach for the voided universe.  for this reason, she lied again, and again, and again ;  until she believed she wanted the barren holiness, and found herself utterly bemused by the absolute ease it required to welcome festering love to creep through the spaces between her gilded ribs.

“ …  he is so …  stubborn, and foolish.  he does not listen, and i  —  ”    oh, look at her.  poor, wretched woman.  suddenly, her hands were meant to touch the heart of another, and the lies were mouthed with naught more than displeasure ;  for there was this man who learned to know her beyond them, as well as she acknowledged his reckless, careless, endearing whimsicality.  his clumsy struggles and lovable qualities.  and, truthfully, resistance could only be considered an impossible effort.  the thought of such alone torturous enough that she preferred to be snapped out of it by the curious impressions within the glance of her starry sibling  —  the sheer tease radiating off of the silent expression suggested full awareness of the remaining contents within the muffled sentence.    “ don’t you look at me like that now.  besides, something tells me a similar experience plagues and blesses you. ”