Willow-by-the-brook - Willow Brooke - Tumblr Blog

site that you can type in the definition of a word and get the word

site for when you can only remember part of a word/its definition 

site that gives you words that rhyme with a word

site that gives you synonyms and antonyms

You spot something gleaming just opposite to you. The twinkling seems to emanate from under the bed opposite to you. A glass of water hiding underneath the cot opposite you sits just on the border between the carpeted flooring of the section you are sitting in and the plain, cold marble floor of the hallway. Now that the chains are off, you can crawl to the cot and drink water. The edge, energy and adrenaline of success have not yet worn off, so you crawl over to the bed. Beside the water, you find a small, rectangular object covered with a smooth wrapping paper with 'Granola Energy Bar' scrawled over it.

Here's something you're familiar with.

You have no idea what the word 'Granola' means, but you had energy bars back at your home timeline. They were, of course, raw sources of power. ATP chemicals made into a form easily absorbable by your body. And the synthetic flavourings made them delicious. You have always wished they used that synthetic flavouring for everything, but you knew the science behind it well enough to not want to ingest more than a few grams of it. After all this struggle, you deserve something at least a little palatable.

You drink your glass of water and empty it in one swig. You pick up the bar, and just as you are about to tear through the wrapping paper like an animal, you spot another piece of paper stuck to the back of the bar, which reads, "Sorry for the unappetising snack- we know you deserve better after so much effort, but this was all we can offer you here. Good job on making it so far. You'll find a real treat when you reach the Final Puzzle."

Unappetising? Whoever this person was, they clearly had not experienced the delectable delights of an Energy Bar.

You tear open the paper in a brutish manner (as you knew you would) and take a bite of the bar. You expected something completely different. You expected to be relieved of all the pain in one go and get filled with energy at the first bite. You expected to be floating on cloud nine with the fresh hit of flavour. What you got, of course, was a sore disappointment.

The energy bar tasted like flat granular pieces of thick sandpaper glazed with some odd sticky syrup to attempt compensation for the appalling texture and taste. The person writing these notes was right about the unappetising taste of the energy bars of the Others.

What pitiable little creatures.

You scarf down a huge chunk of the bar despite the appalling taste. Your insatiable appetite does not possess any regard for taste, and you eat as if you have been on the brink of famine this entire time. Only a quarter of the energy bar is left unconsumed by the raging fire of your appetite. You can only suppress an unappetising taste for so long before it hits you. And when it hits you, it hits you like a trainwreck.

You remain seated for a while, waiting for the 'energy' part of the energy bar to kick into action. You've had this happen to you before, especially when you feel extremely tired; your body will not have enough strength to immediately absorb the energy and will take a little time to do so. When the energy gets absorbed though, you receive an instantaneous "kick" feeling that instantly rejuvenates and energizes anyone in desperate need of energy.

You wait for what feels like an eternity for the kick of energy, but it never comes. Tired of waiting, you get up. The energy bar has given you just as much energy as you would've gotten from eating something like a sandwich or a small salad. It was definitely there, but not really energy-restorative or adequate compensation for all the suffering you were put through. That ever-present ache all over your body had dulled down just enough to allow you to divert some energy into moving around.

You have a nagging feeling of wondering whether those who were in charge of this whole situation wanted you in this crippled, energy-deprived state for whatever sick things they wished to do.

Just because you have a tad more energy doesn't mean your body will stop trying to act sluggish. You drag your feet across the room. You need to examine the room. Perhaps there are more clues as to what this place is and how you even got to an Other Uni. Maybe even a clue as to how to get out of this place and back home?

You reach a wall and plaster your hands to it. You'd thought that the decorative paper would have made the paper smooth, but the walls were still harsh. It had the texture of old watercolour paper that was left exposed to friction and the air for too long.

You examine the posters more closely, trying to divine some details about the workings of this Uni, the level of knowledge they have about the Others and exactly what the purpose of this building is. There's not much to see. Some of the posters are just pictures of beautiful painted skylines. They're gorgeous and all, but they don't really add anything of value to the place. And, in the current moment, you could really use something that gave you at least a little bit of information.

You find an elevated bump as you run your palms over the walls. This stupefied you for a moment. Quite the discovery to make! You knew what that could mean, of course. It could most definitely mean access to a doorway or some concealment of sensitive information. The thought of such possibility thrilled you. There was, of course, the possibility that it was of no consequence, that this room was simply oddly shaped and you were lead on a wild goose chase. You were not willing to think of such possibility, and you therefore moved to action.

You run your hands up and down over the elevated area to figure out the dimensions of this elevation. You find that the elevated bump is two heads higher than you are--approximately 6.5 feet off the ground. The bump ran to the floor, so it was a 6.5 ft high elevation. After tracing out the highest point on the elevation, you run the tips of your fingers sideways, attempting to figure out whether the elevation was a part of the wall (and therefore of no consequence) or a block that stood separately from the wall. You found that the elevation abruptly fell to the original thickness of the wall after what felt like 2.5 ft of running your hand along one side. It felt almost like a thicker block of wood covered by decorative paper was randomly placed in the middle of the wall. You had to admit, the cover-up was done in a deviously clever manner. The raised area would not seem odd to anyone who didn't know where to look; the elevation was very slight- slight enough to be ignored by anyone who was far too concerned with (and terrified of) the matter of being kidnapped and locked up in an odd place unfamiliar to them, even if they were standing close to the wall.

Such placement could not be simply random, of course. It could only mean one thing-- either it was a door to a hidden passageway, or it concealed a part of the wall that could be incriminating.

You immediately felt the adrenaline rushing into your body. You had discovered something of consequence-- something that might help you get out of this accursed place.

You could feel the thrill and exhilaration of success coursing through your body. You finally saw a way to get out of this hell. Finally, the terror and stress that you felt pressing on you (ever since your consciousness had been cursed to have this hell on earth embed its mark deep into your consciousness, which modified it radically and permanently) had loosened the firm grasp it had held over every fibre of your mortal being. The exhilaration of this momentary release from the fear of the unknown, the immense joy pulsating through your veins during that immediate moment before discovery, and all those joyous positive emotions were a fresh breath of new air after all that terror, weakness and stress were thrilling to feel, like feeling the soothing lukewarmth of old tea after roaming in the winter frost for a bit too long.

All those welcome feelings of elation came accompanied by an edge of anxiety. You were still not aware of what the future held for you. You were well aware of the dangers that could be caused by your very presence in this unknown Uni. You were sure this was an honest mistake; Unis like these were 'experimenting' with their little sciences without understanding exactly what they were subjecting their worlds to. An incomplete understanding of the facts always leads to violence. Violence breeds only amidst the ignorant. Ignorance is the downfall of civilization. Even though that may be true, that did not mean that all danger would be negated simply due to the madness that ignorance gives people. You still fear the intentions of the person/s that had access to devices that were able to bring a person from another Uni directly into their own Uni. You feel that lingering anxiety, having its sources in wondering what else they were capable of, what their level of knowledge pertaining to the matter of Time Studies was and what intentions, motives and purposes they had. You were far too used to the natural capability for nefariousness that was becoming of humanity as a whole, no matter which conditions they lived in.

This was no time to let your mind race or to let thoughts, doubts and emotions get in your way. Your fingers wrap around the top edge and the side closest to you of the smooth wood block. You yank at the block, expecting it to fall out. That does not work.

That negates one of my doubts which leads me to believe... I've stumbled upon a doorway!.

You let go of the top of the block. You gently pull the side of the block.

Slowly, the door creaks open.

On the other side, you can spot a sliver of light seeping in from some faraway window. Those slivers of sunlight bring along with them crashing waves, rippling with hope.

I'll get home soon.

You wake up with what feels like a terrible hangover, the dilapidated room around you is unfamiliar and you are chained to the bed, written on the ceiling is the message “If you can read this you’re human enough to use the key on the nightstand”

thank you so, so much for tagging!! sorry for the late reply, i've got a few exams going on atm.

stepping outside i don't think my words can express my love for every tiny thing that belongs to the world outside in a comprehensive enough manner. my deep infatuation with the swaying of the reeds and willows in the gentle summer; my full, heartfelt love for every little fluttering creature that's part of nature.

music what do i even say? the beautiful, lulling rhythms of music always soothe my soul. if i ever feel stressed or anxious, my first instinct is to either put on some music or sing a silly little song. i've always found the gentle familiarity of rhythm to be calming.

cycling cycling is like a magical stress reliever. when i'm out cycling, that hit of dopamine combined with the exhilaration of feeling the chill breeze on your skin-- it's to die for.

writing!!! what do i even say about this? writing's been the love of my life, the muse of my soul and the strand i hang on to for my dear existence!! writing is my method of venting; it's how i release my pent-up emotions and it helps me find healthy ways to heal. writing has my soul, writing has moulded my heart, writing will forever hold my ephemeral soul in its unfading ink.

the sky. the sky is my muse. she is my love. she is my joy. this does tie back to my aforementioned love for the outside world but, come on, don't tell me you don't just love looking at the ever-changing canvas that blankets our world! every moment of my life has been spent falling in love over and over and over again with the sky. her ever-changing drapes fascinate me deeply. her rich, vibrant hues; the gentle, teasing, tickling breezes that accompany her every move; the scintillating stars that adorn her gorgeous, ethereal body--she embodies the perfect muse.

i am not a very active/engaging person on here (and i am deeply regretful for that) so i don't have too many people to tag, but here goes! (btw, love you all💖)

@marysmirages @aphroditesacolyte @musesofthequill @francesiswriting @maygoddess20 @aishasarchive @bleedingbluebells

"List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who reblogged something from you! get to know your mutuals and followers (ू•‧̫•ू⑅)♡" Thanks to @daydream-dryad-13, @dorianbrightmusic, and @0rchidrose for sending me this! I'll also be tagging rather than leaving in askboxes so I can better keep track of who I've sent it to.

When someone lets me know about something they think is interesting - this can be something as small as "hey look at this cool rock I found", or it can be someone explaining a topic they're interested in in considerable depth. i LOVE it when all you amazing people share interesting things with me!

People responding to stuff i've put out in the world - whether that's a "you ok?" after a vent, or a "ooh that reminds me of this!" after a blurble, or a "but hear me out, what if this" after an idea - you're telling me that a REAL PERSON not only LISTENED but JOINED IN??!? amazing.

I have recently discovered that there's a gluten-free French bakery about 15min walk from my house, and i am DELIGHTED. you're telling me there's this dude who heard we can't eat croissants, and not only did he go "damn that sucks" he went and STARTED AN ENTIRE BAKERY ABOUT IT??!? and there's sourdough?! which i haven't got to try yet cos it's only baked a few times a week and it sells fast and i'm busy but there are also ham and cheese croissants. which are ABSOLUTELY DELICIOUS??!? granted, i am still suspiciously lacking in bagels specifically but I GET TO EAT CROISSANTS AGAIN AND THEY ARE DELICIOUS. this is a VERY good thing and i am VERY happy about it!

Bob Mintzer's piece Computer. The computer-y sections pop and bounce just like the inside of my brain and it's SO fun; and the opening chords never fail to bring a smile to my face. (It's now stuck in my head, which i'm looking forward to enjoying for the rest of the day!)

Silly bad jokes/puns. When someone gets me with the 'hi X, i'm name' or similar - like, fuck you (on principle) but I love it. and when i get someone in a similar way - it's just so good! another one that always amuses me is "where's my fucking [item]?" "over there next to your regular [item]" - you understand the style? yeah.

there are many other things that make me happy (singing, in general; for one) but those are 5 specific examples that came to mind! now, for the 10 people who've reblogged me most recently that haven't sent me this yet: @atimewillcomeforsinging @musicalyikes @chilly-moss @mac-attac @verycisdragon @amastelaire @astronomical-bagel @most-definitively-a-human @thefairfeline and 1 other who I can't seem to tag, so I'll leave it in their askbox instead! And anyone else that would like to join - what makes you happy, you amazing people?!

You are rendered speechless for a moment. This room around you feels unfamiliar. You have no recollection of ever having been in a building with a huge hallway-like room whose walls are covered in what seems to be yellowing tiles whose once-had splendour could have been imposing enough to scare you, but now they only tire you.

"Nightstand?", you wonder. "What's that supposed to be?"

Before looking for any key, you look around your room to let it all sink in. The note posted hastily onto the wall beside you seems to be written by those odd machines that the Others possess. This was something you'd heard about the Others- they apparently have not developed enough to create MemoWrites and, to make life easier, seem to just use mechanical devices. Pity.

The area you're currently occupying resembles a bedroom which, by the looks of it, was pre-owned and used by another (and therefore heavily customised). The bedroom appears to only be a section of a larger room. This larger room appears to be a passageway or a corridor of sorts with tiled marble walls--each of the tiles looks bleak and imposing, almost meant to instil a semblance of seriousness but their very obvious age (displayed though peels, cracks and yellowing) now only makes them appear tiring. You notice the oddity of this; the section you are sitting in is vastly different from the rest of the room. To you, it feels as if there used to be walls around your section that appear to have been removed by some means. You wonder which sort of Others these are, who can simply remove and place walls per their own will. The section you are occupying, instead of having tiled walls, is covered in what seems to be some form of decorative paper. The paper on your walls has leaves painted onto them in soft 'pastel' greens (that's what the Others call those colours, isn't it?) and there are a few posters stuck onto the walls with a little more care that the note. The posters are one of the few that you can recognize as something you might see back in your home timeline. You remember receiving and putting up your first poster; a large rose inked in gold with wings around it, inscribed onto a print of black marble. You remember your Insignia well. The posters here don't seem to hold as much significance as they do back at your home. You spot a poster of what appears to be a lightning bolt with... glasses? and 2 small letters below-- HP.

That's an odd Insignia, you think to yourself. And it has initials? These Others are quite the oddity.

Another poster has what some groups of Others call a 'rock band'. You have always wondered what that even meant- as far as you know, rocks did not make good circular or hollowed objects, let alone something like an elastic band. You had heard a few samples of rock 'music' a few years back, in Time Studies. Again, you wondered about the rock part. Were these people really so far behind that they still used rocks to make instruments? No wonder they didn't still have MemoWrites.

The poster had no initials beneath, it just had the words 'Rock On!' written in (Cursive, was it?) Cursive handwriting.

Why did all the Others have odd names for things? Could they not just have normal, sensible names for things once in a while?

The decorative paper takes you back to your grandmother's house. Your grandmother had her house painted in a way very similar to the way this room had been wallpapered. She used to say, "If the place you live doesn't represent you, what's the point of calling it 'home'?". She inspired you to paint your own walls, and it was a decision you haven't regretted since. Your grandmother, you reminisce, was an... expressive woman. You loved how frank, open and honest she was. You loved how bubbly and confident she was. You, sadly, were not everybody else. People often misunderstood your kind grandmother and, with her disposition, she got in trouble far too often. There was one thing she taught you, though, and that was to unapologetically be yourself. Her confidence inspired you, and she always, always told you to never let another's biases influence your opinions or change how you present yourself and your thoughts.

Waves of repulsion course over you. You despise this world that contains no trace of your grandmother and her loving, robust personality with every fibre of your being. I have to get out of here, you silently think to yourself.

Now, onto that key.

You try to find something that looks like a key, but you spot nothing that looks even remotely similar to a small piece of bluish plastic. You instead find an oddly shaped metal object sitting on top of what you are used to calling shelvings.

You try to reach the 'key' with whatever little energy your body can muster. You hadn't yet realised how much pain you were in. You feel a dull pain echoing through every inch of your body. Your head is pulsing, and your skull feels like it is being compressed under a hydraulic press from all sides. Your brain feels weak. Your palms are trembling-you seem to have lost some motor control. Just as you try to move your body just a little bit, your entire body caves in, and you fall down with a thud. You let out an exasperated sigh and lift yourself back up. You aren't able to. You attempt slowly dragging yourself over to the shelvings and manage to get a little further that way.

You reach the shelvings and try to reach for the metallic object. You muster a little strength and try to direct it to your fingers to stabilise them. Once your fingers stop trembling as much, you slam your palm down onto the top of the shelving and drag your hand over the surface to find the metal. After a little bit of 'searching' (if you could even call it that), you feel something cold against your skin. Not the cold of ice, but that of untouched metal. You grab on, let your arm fall to you and lift yourself up. You manage to do it this time. You frantically search the chains binding you for any of those holes that you have seen in the primitive hole-and-stick system you have studied Other civilizations using.

After what feels like millennia of searching, you finally find a hole. You stick the object in and turn it to the right, hoping for the best. You hear a small 'click' like the click of gears - the metal clinks onto the floor - off comes the first chain. You search for a hole in the second chain-you find one - gears click together - off comes the second one.

Newfound freedom puts enough energy in your voice for you to make your voice just loud enough for somebody sitting 6 inches away from you to barely be able to hear you saying, 'I'm coming back to you, Nana.'

(this is a work in progress. will rb soon w/ updates. thanks for ur time❤️❤️)

You wake up with what feels like a terrible hangover, the dilapidated room around you is unfamiliar and you are chained to the bed, written on the ceiling is the message “If you can read this you’re human enough to use the key on the nightstand”

CONTEXT HERE:

hello❤️

❤️❤️to everybody who has been reading my silly old words, thank you very, very much for all your kindness and support. truly, you all are one of the best people i have ever encountered.❤️❤️

recently, i have posted this story on here. it's one of the few stories that i have written that i think are half-decent.

as far as i've seen, y'all don't seem too favourable toward my stories (you seem to like my so-called 'poems' more).

i do have a personal interest in story-writing and had in mind a kinda sorta developed universe-type thing with Wisteria and Aris. if you answer favourably to this poll, i will do my best and work on this project. if not, i don't want to waste your time or provide you with content that doesn't stay w/ you.

also, please, please, please provide feedback on this story. i very desperately want to improve my craft and i believe that the first step to improvement is constructive feedback. be as cruel as you can, i can (and should) handle it.

and, to all of you out there who take out valuable time on your day to check up on this blog and read the tiny, silly things i write, thank you so very, very much. all of your love, support and care truly makes my day.

also, so very sorry for posting this again, my stupid self only just realised that i didn't set the timer for longer, so nobody was able to vote. please, please, please, make sure to vote. i love to hear from y'all, and, i mean, art exists only with its audience. thank you, each and every single one of you, for making mine something a little worthwhile❤️❤️

CONTEXT HERE:

hello❤️

❤️❤️to everybody who has been reading my silly old words, thank you very, very much for all your kindness and support. truly, you all are one of the best people i have ever encountered.❤️❤️

recently, i have posted this story on here. it's one of the few stories that i have written that i think are half-decent.

as far as i've seen, y'all don't seem too favourable toward my stories (you seem to like my so-called 'poems' more).

i do have a personal interest in story-writing and had in mind a kinda sorta developed universe-type thing with Wisteria and Aris. if you answer favourably to this poll, i will do my best and work on this project. if not, i don't want to waste your time or provide you with content that doesn't stay w/ you.

also, please, please, please provide feedback on this story. i very desperately want to improve my craft and i believe that the first step to improvement is constructive feedback. be as cruel as you can, i can (and should) handle it.

and, to all of you out there who take out valuable time on your day to check up on this blog and read the tiny, silly things i write, thank you so very, very much. all of your love, support and care truly makes my day.

A Glimpse in The River

(this is a repost of some old work. sorry if this isn't to your taste and let me know if you'd like to see more or if you'd prefer to just read my 'poetry'.) (thank you for your valuable time and support❤️❤️.)

Day of the Mirror

The feeling of hitting wet sand while running. 

Your sunlit face tells you it's a hot day out, while the rest of your river-water-covered body tells you it's cold.

Your timid, nervous face looks at you from within the clear river water.

Could this day get any worse?

Maybe it will.

Day of the Self

A large and dark-grey ceiling hangs over a room of three completely white walls. The roof overhead is heavy and hangs directly over the heads of those below. It is lumpy, uneven and covered by a thick veil of perpetual gloom.

The strange thing is, the ceiling, as horrible for a stable structure as it is, continues looming overhead with no sign of ever bursting and ending the misery it is put through, resulting in the very thing causing others grief and disappointment.

You look at the ceiling and try to understand how it came to this situation. You wonder what the damage is and try to look for answers. How much ever you try, the only thing you find is grief. Layers and layers of suffering, misery and soul-emptying loneliness.

The walls feel solid, yet the sense that they could easily be torn down slithers up your feet, creeps up your arms and worms into your mind.

Day of the Odd

Is it possible for everything to seem out of place in an area housing nothing?

Can one feel as though they are getting suffocated by nothingness?

Why should life make its hosts feel like it wants to suck out all forms of reality from the hosts themselves?

A house with nothing to show must have nothing to hide.

Mustn't it...?

Day of Discovery

A house made of only a room with three walls.

A house whose broken fourth wall is unable to keep the house bound together.

A house with a weak base.

A house that has no doors.

A house whose walls are not connected closely with each other.

A house with nothing to show.

Except for an invisible window.

Will the window leave a tiny crack?

Can I hope for some light and warmth in this darkness-ridden world?

Day of Redemption

A small window creaks open in a dark and empty room, allowing a small glimpse of the world outside.

The cracks in the window are no source of hope. Instead, they are the exact opposite. They reveal a meek world filled with unpleasantries. The world they overlook is bleak, meaningless and a world that follows pointless objects in the pursuit of what it calls happiness.

Reform of a specific blind hope is in process. It was mistaken to believe that simply because there is another world out there, it would be better than the one I am subjected to live in.

We were told that there is always a better world out there.

That was a lie.

While looking through the crack in the window, my hands drift over the walls. They feel strange. The walls feel solid and as though they have been up for several years. What lies outside is only a limited, narrow view. The world seems completely empty, apart from a few disappointing, uncaring people pursuing pointless endeavors.

The small and limited room seems immaterial. The room is off-putting, with the way it warps the sense of one's reality. It feels unreal, yet forces you to think it is the only reality you can attach yourself to.

If you don't, you'll just end up going mad. Or at least, that's how you see it.

Break Day

A crack in the walls appears as a pair of deep, loving green eyes peek through. The gap widens further and further. You notice the bearer of the dark green eyes is the one breaking the walls with her sharp glance and strangely gentle-looking hands.

She enters the wide hole and beams at you. She sighs in slight exhilaration. She moves closer to you, grabs hold of your hands and seats you onto one of the most comfortable-feeling armchairs you have sat on in a long time. She seems to conjure it out of thin air. You knew the chair wasn't there previously.

This feels good. The chair feels good. The air feels good. Her gentle grasp feels good.

You see the tiniest sliver of sunlight. You smile to yourself, one of the first smiles you have had in six years. You finally feel some hope for yourself.

You can do this. Maybe, just maybe, the window leads to somewhere good.

Present Day

"Aris? What are you doing here?"

"I tried to do the only thing I could. Escape. Leave the torture I was subjected to and fade away."

"But why? Why like this?"

"I don't know, Wisteria! It was the only way I could think of!"

"You know there was another way. You know there-"

"Wisteria, stop. I'm tired. I've been tortured for long enough now. Let me get just a little bit of peace in my sleep. We'll talk afterwards."

"(sigh) Alright. Take your rest. You deserve it. I'm staying here, though, and you aren't going to stop me.

17 years ago

A cosy cottage by the hills. A clear lake with little tulips and lilies. Little children running about the lake, all with about as much joy as you'd expect.

Could you think of a sadder and more painful sight?

A little child pokes her dear and delicate tulip head out the cottage window. She follows the children with dedicated and hopeful eyes, wishing desperately to be a part of their group.

She rushes out of the room into the kitchen. She chirps up, with her little baby voice,

"Maman, puis-je sortir jouer avec ces filles?"[1]

Her Maman smiles at her.

"Oui, ma cherie."[2]

The young cherie rushes out of her house, screaming as wildly as all the other children. Lost in joy, she has left the earthly world behind and ascended to a higher realm, that of Euphoria.

She rushes out with her newfound joy, experiencing it all in one go, unaware that that will be the last time she shares joy like that in at least 3 decades.

All the young children bounce about with joy, their delighted shrieks filling the meadows with pleasant birdsong. All of them jump into the lake and swim about for at least an hour, splashing with all the grace of a seagull looking for food.

None of them notice the smell of smoke piercing the air around them. Not until it's too late.

The little girl poked her head out of the lake to look at her Maman, but her eyes could only see flames licking the land around her. Frightened, she tries throwing some water outside. The flares die quickly, but she is still far too late.

The poor cherie rushes out of the lake, screaming, 'Maman!' No reply comes.

It never shall come.

Fearing the worst, she finds a pail nearby, fills it with water and runs to her house. The smell of smoke alerts her, and she throws the water, managing to put the fire out.

She rushes inside, hoping to find her Maman struggling to breathe but still alive. Nothing but a bit of her Maman's apron is one of the only survivors.

She does not make noise. She tries to will her legs to move, but they are frozen to the spot. She melts down and sits amidst the pile of ashes. She tightens her hold around the piece of cloth.

Unbeknownst to her, she has not escaped scratch-free. A part of her has burnt away in the flames, an essential component. In fact, it is the only part that ever mattered.

That part is a capacity to feel joy. Nay, it is the boldness to feel pure glee. And, by the time she regains that part of her, she will have been too late. She will have missed out on the chance to rejoice in the best parts of life. But she must know that there is hope for her. There is a cure for all afflictions and, no matter how late it comes, it will come, and it will heal her.

Present Day

Everything became hazy. My mind was heavy as is. The hospital beds were uncomfortable to sleep on, but my exhausted person did not care. I was just beginning to doze asleep when I heard Wisteria's worried and caring voice, barely a whisper now, say, "Thank you so much for asking me to check in on her. Poor girl, she's gone through so much. I'm glad she was able to get out alive."

The last thing I heard before dozing off was Wisteria's sobs as she grasped my hand tight. She managed to stop crying for a while, simply to tell me, "You shouldn't have gone through that. I promise that from now on, wherever you go, you won't go alone. I'm there with you every step of the way."

I give her a little smile. I forced my eyes open and managed to get some words out.

"Wisteria?" "Yes?" "I love your dark green eyes." "(shh) Save that for when we get home, silly!"

She smiles at me, pulls me toward her and clutches me tight toward herself. She holds me like that for some time, and I fall asleep in her arms.

It has been a while since I have felt such security, warmth and love.

It feels good.

(translation: [1] Maman, could I play with those girls? [2] Of course, my dear.)

link to photo

have you ever watched a dear kitchen plant raised with your own love and your delicate hands

slowly wither away, shedding its browning leaves; the very leaves that you fed and watched grow green?

have you ever witnessed your own masterpiece made with love and passion

get torn apart; ripped to pieces by the out-of-touch, uncaring hands of a hateful child with no other outlet for his anger?

i have watched this love, this life turn into a hateful conversation, a tasteless lie.

i have watched all of my love and all of my heart wither away, simply because you couldn't try to not rip apart everything handed to you.

how much love do i have to give you for you to stop ripping it apart?

how much of my heart do you need to rip into pieces to start trying to participate in giving me some love?

i've given enough of myself to the world; i don't need you to tear up more of it.

link to photo

seeing these tiny, gentle spots of drifting, floating winter joy i am reminded of the shiny, dear pearls that adorn your face

my hand shivers today simply by coming in contact with those white specks of wonder and joy just as my eyes have shivered every day simply by seeing your dear threaded, perfect, priceless pearls studding the cut gemstone others call a 'face'.

touching the thorns of this alluring rose bush, seduced by the blood red rose whose snakelike thorns have pierced into every thought of mine, i am reminded of the rose-bed that encloses those dear pearls that i fear so instinctively.

i may shudder at the mere sight of such unbearable beauty but just as both the rose and the white specks of winter wonder give me piercing pain and yet i thirst for even a passing caress of their delicate, loving, torturous skins, i shall still thirst for the smallest glimpse of your ever-delightful, ever-floating, ever-loving smile and the lightest touch from the rose-beds of your lips;

(and perhaps, maybe falling on the dying crimson embers of mine?)

i have always wondered how you seem to fool yourself thinking that there is 'no way' a being such as yourself could be loved.

i ask you, my dear, do you think it just to torture me so with your enticing, alluring, beautiful eyes with your full, arched, smiling lips and still call yourself an unlovable 'troll'?

imagine having the audacity to torture someone with intense, never-ending love and then state that you are impossible to fall in love with.

perhaps a madman was simply only madly in love and was left unrecognized.

I've been thinking about this post of mine recently.

Humanity is all the things that come naturally to us. And I think the way people perceive others is such a beautiful thing and perhaps not talked about so often, in a good way. Instead we're quick to tut it away as 'judgement' and something that should not be done.

We're like little poems, you know? Each one of us has varying degrees of imagery and metaphors entwined . And we may not appear so refined to others, but the poet who weaved us was content when we were done. For the poet, we're perfect with the words that make sense and even the intricacies that don't.

Most people will believe the critics and won't even whiff in your direction. But some will come across, notice you, read you. They won't understand you at first, maybe you were penned in a different language they don't understand. Maybe you both have a rhythm that will never have the same frequency, the same flow. But there will be someone who'll be whimsical enough to form your beat.

And that's the potentiality of selfhood, of subjectiveness. Because just like poetry, you're the stars on a cloudy night, dynamic for each reader as they gaze above.

as i am drenched by the rain, blanketed by its cold protected by the piercing of its bullet drops i can only reminisce about the cold, piercing voice that whispers in my ears about how it hates me with a fierce passion.

yet its hands always seem to find ways to bury themselves deep within me and leave 'love' buried within the holes they dug into my heart.

did you remember every word every sentence you said to me and look back at the harshest, most piercing of words as if they were deep, unbridled confessions of love and lust? did you hate yourself want to bury yourself into the darkest, most unknown corners of this planet simply for falling in love?

i hate you, i love you, i don't know who you are.

hello, and good day to everyone reading this! i just wanted to give y'all a huge thanks for everything you've given me.

before posting on here, i never found myself motivated enough to write regularly. i never wanted to hone my craft. i was uninterested in writing anything with dedication or putting any actual effort into my writing.

i used to think that there was no way i could improve my writing and that my current writing was no good. i'd start writing something but give up halfway through due to lack of motivation or direction.

writing also used to be something i was terrified of. i was often afraid that the work i produced was not of good quality, that the images i used would not be ones that would stick with people, or perhaps my writing was a pointless endeavour with no actual impact on the world and needed to be quit as it was of seemingly no use. writing also felt so intimidating. completing huge projects like this on my own felt like a burden i couldn't (and didn't have the right or skills to) lift.

so, from the depths of my heart,

💖Thank You💖

it is only because of your constant support and encouragement that I found the power within myself to continue writing. it is only because of the continuous support that you provided that I stayed consistent in my work.

your generous compliments on my poetry was something very rarely given to me. i felt immense joy seeing people enjoy the poems i produced, and that gave me the eagerness to write more and try to write better.

as you all embraced me as a community, writing stopped feeling like a burden and felt more like a gentle motorbike ride with some friends. i did not realise how much i had undervalued the presence of a supportive community within your activities. your dear, kind hearts were my main motivation to continue producing work that connected with you, and it also helped boost my confidence in my writing and expression. the care and love you give me have impacted me soo deeply as a person. i do not think it would be wrong to say that my life (or at least how i perceive my life) has changed drastically since i have begun sharing this place with you all. you have my eternal gratitude and you are burned into my mind's eye with dear affection.

i have come a long way from where i used to be. my quality of writing has improved by a wide margin. my writing used to be extremely decorative and surface level but, thanks to all the newfound motivation your kind souls have bestowed upon me, i have found the power to tap into raw emotion and simply let my heart take over. you have also allowed me to write my emotions with a consistent tone, quality and clarity.

you all have also positively impacted every other aspect of my life. thanks to your valued support, i was able to gain some confidence in my own abilities and talents and helped me find more joy in my simple life.

to each person who's liked more than 2 of my posts, your name is etched in my heart forever with love.

this has been a long time coming. sorry it took me such a long while to just say 'thank you'. i hope to find more opportunities to interact with all of your dear hearts in the future. your continued support and simple presence here means the world to me.

as the sea waves come crashing onto the shore singing their usual lullaby to their dear niblings of fine grain a small child watches and listens noiselessly in awe of the calm and joy delivered through simple motions of the water he has seen sitting still at his very home.

the young child finds himself hidden within the clear ripples of the everlasting waves. as they wash onto his feet, bringing all his love and joy and more rushing back to him.

as the seas sing their lullabies to the children of the earth (their dear sister) they do not realise their role in awakening a poet in the magnanimous heart of a loving child.

the turning tides have bought the heart of perhaps the most coveted and most sought-after soul that walks upon this earth without ever intending to do so.

what do they choose to do with this power? they choose not to abuse it not to impose it but rather simply to sing its sweet lullabies to another newly obtained sweet child of the earth the seas choose to adopt the heart and soul of the young one as a second child and in doing so make the earth a hundredfold more beautiful a thousandfold more elegant and infinitely more cherished.

i see the universe as this dear art piece fabricated by an eternal, celestial artist fashioned with all the love and passion filled in her heart.

you ever wonder whether she looks at her creations and simply sits in awe, watching them fill up her tiny piece of art with more life, joy and love than can be held in her tiny heart?

every line on my lips every permanent scar every wrinkle each smile line has your name etched into the crevices and your name echoes deep within their bounds.

if only you would attempt to taste that name of yours which you utter with such contempt and such unfamiliarity you would discover the sweet delectabilities the passionate, rich tarts and the homely, comforting intoxication that your delightful name is painted of.

nyctophilia

in every dark hour of the night i find solace in the silent, warm moments of the sweet moments shared when my body is locked by your warm, gentle arms and my eyes are locked to yours by love. in every blanketing piece of darkness i find comfort folded into a corner buried deep within the joys of feeling nothing but the warmth of silence and the gentle yet firm hug of emptiness flooding every inch of me.

luminous spirits

illuminated by the playful rays of sunlight the gentle lake of memories shines, a prism of magnificence hiding in its holds and folds.

each ripple of water toys with the light, letting the joys of the light's childlike demeanour etch itself deep within the previously hollow, paper-thin cave of boyhood.

every ray of light dances around in the ballroom created by the magic, ethereal walls of the childhood cavern, perfectly preserving every inhabitant with their effervescent auras diffused through the walls, painted onto them with the warmth of nostalgia.

as the dear cavern of the heart blooms and floods with the light that joy gives off the boy whose heart encloses that cavern has a painted, joyous smile with a smile 100 times more bright and luminous than any other.

as i lie on the lap of the earth, basking in her light i remain drenched in the joy of knowing that every cherubic, loving little poet, including my tiny heart (full to bursting with love and praise is the most cherished, most memorable and closest lover of her whose lap i lie on.

unwittingly buried

you fear, do you that your unnoticed, shadowed self does not possess enough beauty to tickle the fancies of the fickle human mind to that, i ask you, have you seen the mist? you, the dream child of a hundred poets, you, the starlit lake that we wish to bring home with such a thoughtful mind as yours have you not marvelled at it?

you, darling sun-child, have not. had you seen the dearest mist, you would say otherwise. for every time i hear 'mist', i think of the epitome of beauty.

the mist is what all of us aspire to be. her veiled allure, beheld only by her closest, are all these not things to love? do they not enhance the preciousness of her charm?

she might seem often overlooked, seeming pointless and simply decorative - useless to your purpose; but that is the very thing that beautifies her! do you not understand this?

you, my dear moonlit fantasy, do not. for the mist is one whose beauty is so powerful that if you were to witness it head-on, you would become unable to function. because unnoticed beauty is only gone unnoticed because it is far too efficient and far too perfect to be able to tread in the forefront of human perception without causing the world to rush into uproar in fascination of it.

the mist, my dearest Persian pearl, is so unfathomably beautiful she is so dear, so charming, so darling, daring and cordial so patient, untiring, serene her beauty, already so efficient enhanced by her impermeable veil of mystique still only amounts to the beauty held in your nailbeds.

it shocks me, my dear that you seem to see yourself as nonexistent and worthless when your apparent 'unseen' beauty has such a daring effect over even the strongest of hearts

every tiny bit of you that (apparently) goes unseen is a unique, burning, shining star and you, a constellation celestial being on earth, you are so bright, so full so gorgeous, so fiery that even idly watching you would be far too much of a burden to bear.

every heartbeat feels infinitely long, with your warm breaths blanketing my shivering, tiny heart. every blink of your gorgeous, full eyes feels indefinite, unending, with the love that fills them flooding every corner of my heart.

Hello everyone!!

This is my first time posting my work on the internet. I hope it somehow touches your soul <33

Shall I recite thy songs,

Or relive the scriptures of the unknown

Might as well shed this remorseful bush

Was I wove for the fabrics of paramour?

Incandescent thoughts revolve

Is it misery or is it resolve

If it's my own cogitation that keeps me warm.