The Arrows Of Love || VMIN

A Chase

"... Creation, for a human, is the self-hunting closure of life, one without need; yet to fill the hunger of mind, of heart, it was invented. Art, for an artist, is the joyous route of expressing pain; and true pain is felt when they fail to do it.

They are the reason- why creativity is just another name of love.

Born from one's mind, spreaded through a heart, incapable of being concealed in a body even if put in a prison of stone; if thought properly, one will understand that creativity and love are just each other's synonyms."

Jimin picked away the suddenly fallen poinciana from the middle of the pages, blowing it from his rosy palm as far as it would go, closing the book held in his other hand.

It had been a week since his arrival in this picturesque palace. Seven days, he had spent in this island of heaven in the middle of nowhere, floating in the hollow void of sky which laid beyond these lofty cloud walls.

Seven days he had spent walking on gold, basking in luxury he had never imagined could exist, and ordering breeze for crying out loud.

Another scentless bloom fell on his exposed shoulder, the white lapel had fallen somewhere on the velvet comforter when he was sleeping on it, even some moments ago.

The Prince brushed the light, ticklish flower away; putting one dangling foot on red-filled soil to give the swing another push.

The aureole-bearing titan had gone to rest sometime ago, probably just before he woke up. But even if dusk darkened, the human didn't wish to leave this place at all.

The dying flames of the setting sun had painted the blue stream beside almost violet, the clean shivers from its body resounding in the mortal's own chest.

On earth, when he had no time to spare himself a breath, Jimin had thought; only if I could escape from this cage of divinity, my loves will never be dry again, will always stay soaked in the pigment of their owner's undivided attention.

But now, with everything he could ever need to be creative and more at his service, he couldn't put a single stroke on the white canvases, leaving them empty like the future of an infant younger than three days, before the Fates would write its fate.

Where did that pain go, the source of his inspiration? Where was that love in his heart, which nourished its innocent flow, like rain did a ceasing river?

Why, why had the insides of his ribcage turned vacant, cold; like the right side of their bed every morning, when everyday, without mistake, his husband would leave him?

The Prince stomped his hanging foot on the ground, halting the swing's gentle pace.

By an abashed, hesitant request, he had convinced that beast to at least inform him about his ensuing departure before he would leave at the break of dawn, to end this unreasonable paranoia of his heart, which feared this monster's abandonment like death itself.

How was he even getting attached to this faceless husband of his, who had been obsessively using his chest instead of a pillow to sleep on for the last two nights?

At the memory, the human huffed.

"It's much softer, Peony!"- the beast had reasoned.

Jimin, to keep it frank, had wanted to be one with the bed at that, for once and for all; because lifeless objects like it couldn't get shy. But to his misfortune, he could, so he had opposed the arrangement; face on flames, meek words barely getting out of his throat.