(｡'-д-)。。
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 multitudes of pages reopen old tales and wounds; throughout the lifetimes, throughout the sentimental moments, and throughout history. a gentle, welcoming lull that beckons you into its embrace ⸺ alongside the companies of eccen...
Notes : reader insert, mostly self projecting so it might be occ? maybe not. — about 1.5k~ words. Warning : very minor religious themes, no proofread / beta.
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The poignant air of the rain pours down onto the presence of two figures, blending in within the thinly veiled presence of solitude.
It's hard to comprehend the kind of silence that's terribly loud, you think. Something that was not asked for, but still graciously given; like it's a primary need, an inevitable livestock. Something that you're forced to live with, one way or another.
Right now, it's just the two of you, standing amongst each other under the gloomy blanket of the sky, gently embracing you with a false reminder of comfort.
His radiance shines bright, even now.
Somehow, it feels like a painting. The glowing contrast of orange inbetween the sullen, desaturated hues of the buildings and the droplets, water; a single radiant star that carries through the woes and tribulations of life, in spite of the closing doors and crashing hopes; a soldier that marches on.
The passing facade of comfort fades away, replaced with an unidentifiable sense of relief. Maybe it feels warped in a sense, but you can't help but bask into such things knowing that you're not alone, never alone, inside of this reeking puddle of blood.
A reliance that blooms like arrays of deep red poppies, realms of a mirage that withholds years of memories full with grief; of sorrow; of regret.
"Hey, look, it's a slug."
"..what the fuck?" comes the muffled response, drowning amongst the fog.
"I thought Dazai refers to you as a slug?" a light cackle rings through the loud noise of rapid drizzles, "it's raining and that makes it damp here. Slugs, snails and their kind are bound to appear, right?"
"Bring that bastard into any conversation we're having," he growls (at least, that's how he looks). "And I'll have your head by dawn."
"Wouldn't that be quite the show," like he'd ever land a scratch on you.
"Fuck yourself."
"M-hmm." a light hum, as you take a single cigarette and a lighter, diving deep into the relentless ocean that is your very own mind. Maybe that way, you'd fall with graceful tranquility, blinded by a false depiction of what could've been.
Not a big fan of small talk, you are. And surely it's clearer than ever.
Maybe it all could've gone in entirely different ways, if only you didn't do so much, commit so much, fail so much, achieve so much; if only you were not a presence at all. Lest it's all mere dramatics weaved with delicate scripts and stringed words, some kind of worldwide masquerade.
Maybe it's not your place to think of that after all. Being nothing but a one in a million participant upon the surface of raging screams of the youth; deceived by the world with momentary bliss and nothing but a descent further into nothingness by the day.
