The Price Of Crossing A Bridge Long Since Burned (Your Memories Shall Do Just Fine)

I was going to post more stuff more often but the, in my opinion, unnecessary drama over Aventurine is making me reconsider things. I made a lot of pieces after I finished the 2.1 quest but I worry about posting them.

I'm sure no one really cares since I usually post once in a blue moon anyway but I still find the drama concerning. Perhaps that just me though.

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

Anemoia (How Long Will You Reach For The Ghosts Of Distant Stars?)

They could see the stars tonight, bright splatters of light across the shadows of the sky. They don't really know why they decided to come out here, so far from the comfort of their little cottage, but they don't want to return, not yet at least. Wrapped in their cloak, they nestle themselves into the trunk of an old, hollowed out tree as they crane their neck upwards. The stars flicker and blink down at them, almost as if they were waving a hello. A ridiculous thought they don't mind entertaining as they raise their own hand to wave back. Maybe they are a bit of a fool, but they never claimed to be wise in the first place.

This reminds them of dreams they could have sworn they had forgotten, the wisps of names and faces that linger on their tongue even as the memories faded from their mind. They could almost feel the leathery skin underneath their fingertips, the sharp edges of scales too big. The blooming feeling of awe as feather and fur alike curl around their shoulders. Even the whistling winds, rustling through leaves and grass, remind them of the songs they used to sing, the lyrics long forgotten. Not quite unexpectedly, it hurts. Aching something fierce and bold in their chest, that forces tears to well in their eyes. Logically, they know it's silly to cry over something they can barely remember, over something that the world doesn't remember existing. At least, not in this life.

But they don't swallow down the sob that leaves their throat nor wipe away the iridescent tears that fall from their eyes. They don't mind the chill that seeps into their chest as their tears soak through the thin fabric of their shirt, far too busy watching the stars drift across the skies. They think, at first, only distantly, that they can see the twisting shapes of long serpentine bodies and billowing wings. They swear they can hear the timber of voices overlapped, the shadows of all too human bodies that they should know but can't quite remember. They wonder if they can miss people that don't exist.

They wonder if these memories are what drives them away from the people, the connections, of this earth. Star child, they remember their grandmother whispering to them in the late hours of the night. You are loved, they remember her murmuring to them every day from then on. They remember clinging to her feeble form as she spun tales of mystical beasts and stories of man made gods. Rivers to a lake, spiraling into the deep caverns underneath, hoarding knowledge underneath their silence. They wonder if there was some truth to her tales after all.

Star child, that name, title they suppose, has haunted them throughout their entire life. They wonder if it is why they can taste lightning on their tongue even when the skies are clear, if it is why they can feel the brittle-snap of thunder between their teeth. They wonder if it is why frost cradles their skin even when hearth-warm fire curls in their chest, the duality often leaving them sick and bedridden. Wildfires spark to life, just shy of burning and charring the vulnerable flesh of their heart. That coil around their ribcage and rumble as though the earth was quaking under a cat's quiet purr. All the while, ice forms at the base of their throat, encircling their arms like sharp shackles. They don't mind the chill, even when it hurts to speak. They welcome the frost and the cold, wrapping themselves in snow to stave off the constant heat.

They suppose it is, just like the winds that push for them to wander the world. A wanderlust unseen in their family, where others root themselves into the soil, they take to the skies. Following where the breeze and the gales blow them, the peaks of snow-capped mountains and the depths of oceans. Their body is not meant for travel, frail from the war that wages inside them. But it's not as if they could stop. They ache for the road, to chase after the stars as if they could someday reach up to pluck them from the skies. Their only real companion over the years, the feel of coiled bodies in the palm of their hand and the sound of an echoing roar in their ears.

Sometimes, they still expect a tail to curl itself around their legs even though the creature that tail is connected to only resides in their dreams. They still turn and expect to see the divine tipped claws of monsters, to have to tip their head back to speak to looming shadows of those they should know and still somewhat do, even if they haven't met them yet. Their disappointment when all that greets them is silence and emptiness is often crushing and immeasurable, inconsolable grief that drapes across their shoulders like a dark veil. Those days, they spend their time inside, away from the sun and the stars, away from the gaze of the people that stare and stare. They spend those days painting and writing, over and over, trying to capture the faces and forms of their companions they so desperately want to remember.

But it never looks quite right. Something is always wrong, always off. Failure is a bitter thing to swallow, it tastes of bile and blood and tainted honor. It is the shattering of pride, the sting of human hubris that leads them to bury their half written journals and messily sketched paintings. It is what forces them to grip the few pieces of their memories close, cradling their dreams like the most precious of treasures. Long fluttering scarves and cloaks, flowing fabrics that hide the invisible pouches of chiming bells and glimmering scales. Though they carry little on their journey, they can't help but feel an anchor's weight on their shoulders, Atlas heavy. A worthwhile price for the imaginary companions that drive away the loneliness, even if they do still want to feel the steady heartbeat underneath their hands.

Star child, they muse to themselves, it grows more fitting by the year. Stardust in their veins and the world at their fingertips, it is only a matter of time before they will be cradled in the careful coils of their once lost companions, one way or another.

@n0tamused

Beloved One, Where Has Your Humanity Gone? (Exalted One, Your Monstrosity Is All That You Need.)

I've sat upon this throne

For a century it feels

But I know

Not a decade has passed

It is velvet plush 

And silken smooth

Crafted of sunbeam golds

And starshine silvers 

The jewels that adorn it

Are precious and lovely

From the deepest blues

That remind me of oceans 

And the empty gaze 

Of a devout follower

Stained by ink and blood

The shine of peacock teal

The glimmer of amethyst violet

The spark of sunset topaz

Devotion and adoration

Swirl and coil in irises glazed

A whirlpool of desire 

That drags me under

Drowning me in their affection 

They've crowned me honor

Exalted me above all

Their touches are butterfly light

Their words dripping with honeydew

Their bodies for me to use

Their souls for me to savor

A title

A crown 

So light upon my head

A responsibility 

Utter trust and loyalty

Heavy upon my heart

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely"

I've heard it said a dozen times before

But here in this world

Paradisiacal as it is

I can't seem to care

I am their God

It's only right I take my due

*long-suffering sigh*

just a small psa — if yandere/dark content isn’t your cup of tea, just block and move on. you are in charge of your internet experience.

writing/consuming this genre, as much as it is a coping mechanism used by me and others, does not equate to glorifying it. please utilize reading comprehension and pay attention to disclaimers, and the way these topics are depicted.

does the author of the work you’re reading properly tag and call for the importance of seeking mental health if you/others are portraying unhealthy behaviors? conduct research on the author and confirm whether or not they have a history of condoning shitty behaviors. consume art with a critical eye.

moral senses are not universal and should never be treated as such.

ask questions. cross reference. if something squicks you, blacklist or block! you aren’t the target audience, and that is okay. everything is not for you.

and PLEASE conduct some self–study and unpack your biases with your concepts of good and bad. not everything is black and white. i pray that someday, you learn to be significantly less judgmental with what people choose to spend their time doing. if nobody is being hurt, leave the perpetrator be. moral greyness isn’t evil, bad, and shouldn’t be shunned or demonized.

writers/artists are already given enough shit, no matter the genre. you don’t like it? scroll. block. it’s free. make your own stuff. create what you want to see. art with scary/dark themes has been here for centuries, and will be here after all of us are gone. do you think something is worthy of critique? offer something constructive and move on!

just because YOU!! don’t like a piece of art with dark themes doesn’t mean it should never exist. if you want sterile, clean work then make your own.

and for the love of all, please practice what you preach and be kind.

Reblog if you love AO3 and appreciate their volunteers who are working harder than God, fighting battle after battle, making sure the place that is a safe space for every fandom is staying up and running for all of us

Your Faith Has Made You Complacent (And Thus Your Pride Will Bring You To Ruin)

Another piece inspired by @m1d-45. I have normally have great impulse control unless it's writing. Then this happens.

Instincts honed

Through years of wear

It has led them well

When their heart was torn

And their mind in shambles

So why?

Why is it now

That they fail to listen?

It pulls back 

Desperate to get away

To plead for forgiveness 

For ignorance and arrogance 

They do not listen 

Not this time

Emotions surge 

As their heart thunders

Their mind races 

Ignoring the sirens that blare

They raise their blade

Even as something 

Someone?

In the back of their head howls

The weapon plunges 

Sinking into soft flesh

The thud of a guillotine

A hasty execution 

It is a graceless death 

That prickles their skin

As a sense of wrongness settles

Something is not right

When they fall to their knees?

Why were they trying to heal the dead?

Why did their soul ache?

Why does it feel so wrong?

Oh.

What have they done?

some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.

Glory To The Faithful (The World Screams In Its Anguish)

His hands twitched, his skin rubbed red and raw, his breaths escaping his chest with a rasping wheeze. Apologies carved into his chest as he claws at his arms, the stain of gold stark on his skin. He had not left the cell in days, scrubbing at the stone bricks in vain. Glowing faintly in the dark, he sobs tearless cries at the cruel reminder of his mistakes, as the waters bleed crimson. His blood over his God's, though now he began to doubt his claim of fervent devotion, he has no right, but he is far too greedy to offer its sacrifice just yet. Cradling his vision close, bloody streaks tracing the engraved constellation he knew was his, proof of his status even if he were to fall from grace. Memories with jagged edges that tear and spill open the truths he wished not to see. Iron to his eyes and thread through his lips, he can not hear and no longer can he feel, penance for his sins. A warden of a prison that holds only one. He burns alone, deep beneath the dark waters.

Return To Stardust (Eternity Is Within Our Grasp)

A cosmos of stardust

Memories of a life never lived

Of a body that wasn't quite right

A companion to the one lost

Haunted by a vengeful past 

Bound to secrecy and silence

He waits for painful judgment 

But for the one born of starshine

Love and loyalty is not so easily lost

A beginning brought forth

From vicious destruction 

A fate once damned 

Blooms ever faithful

Two souls lost in the abyss

At last find their way back home