BTS Imagines

Lethe's muse

Happy birthday to our amazing leader, yours truly's bias and the train yard's wise man: Namjoon!

May your day be filled with all the affection you deserve and be surrounded by loved ones to celebrate your twenty-fourth year, an anniversary that shall hopefully only add up in number as you give us, alongside the rest o' the lads, amazing music to listen to, to keep us dreaming and fighting for those dreams.

I certainly know you do that for me.

Happy Birthday, Joon.

***

Lethe or lethe (n.)

A river in the Greek underworld that, when drunk from, made souls forget the sufferings of life; oblivion or something to make you enter oblivion and forget.

There is a safe haven to be found in thoughts, simply letting consciousness fade away as imagination takes over and the pen scribbles down the ideas unconsciously interwoven with one another, turning them into a poem to add to the rapidly growing collection in the newly bought notebook, the latest addition to the growing stack at home.

Home, an odd phenomenon since the memory of taking up residence at the cottage by the sea is vague and strange. The only clear details that were perceived with hazy eyes were platinum strands being gently swept to and fro by the waves lapping at the golden shore, rough sand stuck to the side of the face and deflated lungs glad to finally be able to breathe again. Other than that, there had not been a clear indication as to what lead to being cast away nor any recollection whatsoever of anything before, not even a true name to call the self. Nevertheless, there was a mental push to choose an abbreviation of or, rather, a play on a certain name that kept milling around in mind, Calliope, but it seemed wrong so the other one lurking behind the various confused thoughts was chosen and henceforth I was reborn as Y/N.

Fortunately, the decision to take on the new identity came at precisely the right time since not shortly after I was found by a young sun-kissed tall man with plump rosy lips, hazelnut hair covering the forehead with a darker blackish undercut and wisened eyes, which strangely prodded at a sense of recognition somewhere within though, alas, it merely remained at a suggestion. The attire worn that day is one of the finer described aspects of the odd remembrance: a navy and white-striped loose-fitting blouse on top of winter white shorts with a necklace of tiny gemstones smoothed out by the sea around the throat.

A yellow storm was kicked up the moment the stranger saw me making an effort at getting up from the sand, weak shaking arms endeavouring to pull the body exhausted by the journey to the coast upright yet immediately falling down again as muscles gave way, clearly not strong enough at the time to work in unison with willpower. Almost tripping whilst running and inevitably almost doing so again when coming to a halt to bow down into a crouching position to lend aid, the man extended a helping hand that was gladly taken.

There was no way around the question marks popping up in the observant chlaro walnut gaze taking in the overall picture of the sight come across, the drenched pale hair split apart into individual messy strands thanks to the rough sea salt, visage caked with sand and a simple wrapped gown, that seemed foreign in this day and age although the exact reason for this evaluation cannot be given, leaving practically nothing to the imagination. However, the unsuspected saviour averted focus elsewhere further up when noticing the body was barely covered up safe for the sticky fabric.

'Thank you.' Hands let go of each other, the breeze immediately cooling down the touched skin and causing goosebumps all over. Offering gratitude for the good deed was the least that could be done, aside from answering some pressuring inquiries which all came flooding the mind at once like the waves at the shore as senses sharpened.