their cries were left unheard,
but still did they yearn to be
with them.
A MINECRAFT YOUTUBER ONESHOT BOOK.
RANKINGS
trio #6 || 1.3.2021
thetrio #2 || 8.27.2021
george #222 || 1.1.2021
minecraft #280 || 1.1.2021
dream #284 || 12.20...
( 15 ) REVERIE DREAM SMP ✓ VARIOUS DREAMSMP x SHE / HER READER
( drunk people, alcoholic beverages, swearing )
IT'S ONLY A DREAM.
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BOOKS - WHOLE WORLDS and entire universes created by authors using words of honey and bittersweet sentences. Magic and wonder - dragons and fairies and elves and dwarves - they're all brought to life with the single sweep of a quill or the twist of a pen. Even lips of cracked, dry flesh can string together poems so delicate and descriptive that you're transferred to another dimension just from the drone of their voice.
Y/N often wishes she could be transferred to another dimension.
She longs to feel pain in her heart, to feel something other than this numbness that consumes her entire soul. Oh how the entirety of her being wishes to frolick through fields of fragrant lavender, to brush her hands against the rough, weathered stone of ruined palaces once stood high and strong, towering over villages and cities of old. Forests filled with twittering sparrows and oceans cursed with enchanting sirens - she feels drawn to them, her feet taking step after step in any direction, any at all, and she wants to keep walking so that she can finally reach the places of her dreams, but she can't. She can't.
You know why she can't?
Because that is all they are - sceneries drawn up by inky imaginations. They're nothing but the silky words engraved into yellowed parchment by writers who wish the same as she: to be whisked away to some magical, fantastical land, filled with golden-petaled flowers and underwater caves with hidden, scintillating treasures.
The tug in her chest, the one of longing and the one that slowly but surely will break her mind into shimmering, pieces likened to glass shards, reflecting her thoughts of faraway realms - it is nothing new to her. It had carved its place in her dreary mind and heartless soul long ago, when she'd first set her eyes upon lines of squid ink pressed into stacks of paper, tugging at her thoughts every so often, the cause of her reverie when she sits by the windowseat of her bedroom so that she might admire the beams of radiant golden tendrils, the ones that shine through the darkened windows of her pallid 'home.'
She had never been more sure than she is now that this box of hard cement and white, wearing walls couldn't be further away from a home.
It is a prison of alabaster paint; a place with shackles of familial ties that keep her from grasping her dreams of cerulean waterfalls dropping from high cliffs and lush caverns decorated with glowing lanterns - for these people who hold her back with heavy fists and reddish, calloused palms are nothing like the families she's grown up reading about. They're all beings indifferent to each other's connections, their voices laced with venom and silent threats. They speak in cloying riddles, all masters of the mind, all having grown up with their fingers already stringing along a child once gifted with the purest of hearts.
