A Glimpse In The River

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.)

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.

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”

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?!

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.

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❤️❤️