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de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Mar 30 Juil 2019 - 16:41
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ It's your last potion before you have to resort to more ... recreational and experimental drugs. You like the way your spirit goes up while your body no longer can (as it used to), and there is sweetness in the fall. As if your wings had been pinned on you rather than sown, and the air beneath you ripped them apart as you fell. Your mood is steady, for once - probably the worst symptom of what ails you, the moodswings. You never know which Althea you'll show the world : the connasse or the straight up asshole. As you enter the hospital, you follow the path you know so well, crossing paths with nurses and doctors alike. They don't have faces, to you - you're on a mission to plan your next fixes, and one could call you single-minded to a point of recklessness. What stopped you in your tracks? An eerie feeling of déjà-vu. You can't see his face. Who is he?
There's something about this doctor, the way he moves, sways. Isn't there a sweet tint to him, that some part of you recognizes? A light softness - you should walk away, Althea. You've become so apt at chewing humanity, picking it apart until only the bones remain. Maiming things and people as life has chosen to maim you, angel face and broken wings, with the willpower to share misery (you're just that generous). And yet. You want to see who it is, at least, get a small glance at the softness - you get so little of it, these days, that you're willing to risk being seen. Who is this mysterious doctor? Unable to get a proper glance, you end up following him, hiding behind filing cabinets as he turns around. Just like magnets. In orbit around him, the impulse is stronger than your better instincts - you need to know his identity. Conventions and your prescription be damned. A patient in a wheelchair distracts you, for a moment - your eyes cross paths, there's something so uncanny, so familiar about it. You know you may end up in one too, someday. It sends a chill down your spine as you go on, moving forward as an automat stuck in a second hand dream. There's no softness to the clash as you run straight into your prey - you won't get any points as a hunter, will you? Your first reflex is annoyance, as your fingers put your blazer back in order, and your blue-grey eyes finally meet his. « What the ... » It feels like a dragon hit you in the chest. Him? Here? « How ...? » Eyelids folded in disbelief, you lean in closer, as if your bodies might touch - but they don't. You take him in, with the memories of how gentle he was and the misery of lives long gone. « I thought you were a painter ». Really, Althea. Is this how we greet people? Where are your manners, princesse?
@Dorian Jakobsen
There's something about this doctor, the way he moves, sways. Isn't there a sweet tint to him, that some part of you recognizes? A light softness - you should walk away, Althea. You've become so apt at chewing humanity, picking it apart until only the bones remain. Maiming things and people as life has chosen to maim you, angel face and broken wings, with the willpower to share misery (you're just that generous). And yet. You want to see who it is, at least, get a small glance at the softness - you get so little of it, these days, that you're willing to risk being seen. Who is this mysterious doctor? Unable to get a proper glance, you end up following him, hiding behind filing cabinets as he turns around. Just like magnets. In orbit around him, the impulse is stronger than your better instincts - you need to know his identity. Conventions and your prescription be damned. A patient in a wheelchair distracts you, for a moment - your eyes cross paths, there's something so uncanny, so familiar about it. You know you may end up in one too, someday. It sends a chill down your spine as you go on, moving forward as an automat stuck in a second hand dream. There's no softness to the clash as you run straight into your prey - you won't get any points as a hunter, will you? Your first reflex is annoyance, as your fingers put your blazer back in order, and your blue-grey eyes finally meet his. « What the ... » It feels like a dragon hit you in the chest. Him? Here? « How ...? » Eyelids folded in disbelief, you lean in closer, as if your bodies might touch - but they don't. You take him in, with the memories of how gentle he was and the misery of lives long gone. « I thought you were a painter ». Really, Althea. Is this how we greet people? Where are your manners, princesse?
@Dorian Jakobsen
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
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Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Ven 9 Aoû 2019 - 15:07
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ And you laugh, a clear and gentle melody in the heavy atmosphere of the hospital. Blue paint smudged on your cheek, you gently pinch the guilty child’s nose. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t you?” He chuckles before returning to his work. While he is doing so, you can’t help but having a lump in your throat. It is your duty to take care of these children, knowing that, maybe, tomorrow, they will be gone. This one keeps talking about Hogwarts, how he can’t wait to go there and be a Slytherin like his mother or a Hufflepuff like his father. But, to this day, nobody can tell if he will even be able to see his eleventh birthday. And yet, here he is, laughing and painting with you, acting like everything was fine. Like you do, pretending to be well every day, though the carnations are growing under your skin, into your lungs and your eyes. While you see him as courageous, you see yourself as a liar. A sigh leaves your lips, and you get up, fondly smiling at the little boy. “Sorry sweetheart, I have to leave, can you be an angel and put everything back in place?” With a pout, he nods and allows you to go without overmuch complaint. It is really getting late, he must go to bed anyway.
Wandering in the hospital, you exchange a few words with your colleagues. Happy to see you back, words that make you feel undeserving of your luck. Before your departure, you told your boss about your choices, asking for privacy when they asked why. You didn’t expect them to understand that easily, but they did. And now you’re back, like you were never gone. A fish in the sea, swimming between bodies and faces you know too well, a smile for each of them, you're drowning in silence. As you walk, you're feeling something in your back, like a string connecting you with it. A red one, around your little finger. A myth you leant in Japan, speaking with a stranger on the street. You want to follow your instinct and see, but like a meteoroid, a body clashes into yours – making a supernova in your bruised lungs. Ah, the flowers are cruel, luckily you catch your breath in times to identify the stranger’s face. Your deep black eyes lose themselves in a storm.
Slowly, a smile blooms on your face. You recall her, the hurricane and passion that flows in her being, the one you drew with details. A sweet encounter, fire dancing on your soul. Ballerina on the milky way. You laugh, lost between confusion and happiness, amused by her reactions. “I knew someone was following me.” She loses her manners, and you don’t really care. Your heart stings a bit when you realize how some of her colors fade, hostile achromatopsia. She leans closer, and you can take a sight of every detail of her expression. Not as happy to see you, you take a small take back -so she will not see how darker your eyes went. An accusation, your hands rise as if you were under arrest. “I am a man of many faces and many lives.” You said, jokingly. Your smile declines a bit as your iris shine in softness. So many questions come to mind, and you want to cut your tongue to not tell them, wise enough to know when to shut it. “You- I never thought we will meet again.”
Wandering in the hospital, you exchange a few words with your colleagues. Happy to see you back, words that make you feel undeserving of your luck. Before your departure, you told your boss about your choices, asking for privacy when they asked why. You didn’t expect them to understand that easily, but they did. And now you’re back, like you were never gone. A fish in the sea, swimming between bodies and faces you know too well, a smile for each of them, you're drowning in silence. As you walk, you're feeling something in your back, like a string connecting you with it. A red one, around your little finger. A myth you leant in Japan, speaking with a stranger on the street. You want to follow your instinct and see, but like a meteoroid, a body clashes into yours – making a supernova in your bruised lungs. Ah, the flowers are cruel, luckily you catch your breath in times to identify the stranger’s face. Your deep black eyes lose themselves in a storm.
Slowly, a smile blooms on your face. You recall her, the hurricane and passion that flows in her being, the one you drew with details. A sweet encounter, fire dancing on your soul. Ballerina on the milky way. You laugh, lost between confusion and happiness, amused by her reactions. “I knew someone was following me.” She loses her manners, and you don’t really care. Your heart stings a bit when you realize how some of her colors fade, hostile achromatopsia. She leans closer, and you can take a sight of every detail of her expression. Not as happy to see you, you take a small take back -so she will not see how darker your eyes went. An accusation, your hands rise as if you were under arrest. “I am a man of many faces and many lives.” You said, jokingly. Your smile declines a bit as your iris shine in softness. So many questions come to mind, and you want to cut your tongue to not tell them, wise enough to know when to shut it. “You- I never thought we will meet again.”
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
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Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Jeu 22 Aoû 2019 - 22:31
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ « I knew someone was following me. » A glance, just one, like a child being caught at a naughty game, riddled with a fake brand of remorse that can't hide your playfulness. And your wonder - to see him again, this comet you had thought gone forever. So you lose your composure, but he doesn't seem to care. Sweet one. You take it in, his hands raised, those hands that knew how to translate the wonders his dark eyes saw. Had they always been this dark? His answer puts an end to your musings, and you smile. « I am a man of many faces and many lives ». You notice it, the slight movement towards the back, and it saddens you, a little. There had been a soft chemistry between you, before. Must this be gone with the rest, with the dance, with your god-forsaken legs? Can't you keep anything sweet from your time across the Atlantic? Are you condemned to the ashes? Mischief slips into your expression, and a playful half smile stretches your lips. « I won't bite, you know ». Well, not hard, at least. You're constantly suspended between the need to caress and to slap, so really, with you, it's a matter of coin-tossing. But him? No parcel of you wants to harm him - for now, at least. He had brought you light and softness at a time when you were drowning in glitter. Now that it's gone, could this feeling come back? More than a year later, is it possible to meet up in the middle, stare at the people you've become, and still produce magic? Light, even? Are you still capable of it? Sometimes, you want to. Mostly, you just want to let yourself sink, a thousand strands floating around you. Ballet silks. Regrets. Memories. You wish you could ask someone to help you forget. To obliviate you, make it seem as if you had never been special. That's the worst part - being exceptionally ordinary when you know you've been great, once. That hurts the worst.
Is it wonder that you see in his eyes, as well? « You- I never thought we will meet again. » There is a small emotion rising in him - is there? Are you imagining things in others, when the drugs make you soar above the sky? Can he see it in your eyes, the color of rain? Struck by an impulse, you grab his hands, pulling him towards you, so that you can be protected in a corner between a file cabinet and a large rocking chair. You don't know why - for now, you want to keep him to yourself. And so, you laugh - like a mischievous child, and you keep his hand between yours, though your fingers can't quite cover his. « Me neither, clever one ». There's something surreal about it. Will you wake up in an instant, and become someone else, a bird who can still fly? Or would you be a doll who has yet to be broken? Oh, how you'd twist and turn if you could, still. What you do now is but a farce, a shadow. « Are we really here? », you ask, a sparkle of wonder making its way through your rain-colored eyes. He had known such wonderful illusions, making you seem so ... weightless on his papers. What is art, but illusion? When you danced, were you not capable of such mind tricks, making every effort seem like nothing, turning pain into grace? It seems so long ago. Eyes folded dubiously, as if he was praying you to some elaborate joke, your left index stretches towards his face as if you could chastize him, the other hand still gripping his. A need for reality, this feeling that he's truly here. « Or have you learned new tricks and decided to haunt me? »
Is it wonder that you see in his eyes, as well? « You- I never thought we will meet again. » There is a small emotion rising in him - is there? Are you imagining things in others, when the drugs make you soar above the sky? Can he see it in your eyes, the color of rain? Struck by an impulse, you grab his hands, pulling him towards you, so that you can be protected in a corner between a file cabinet and a large rocking chair. You don't know why - for now, you want to keep him to yourself. And so, you laugh - like a mischievous child, and you keep his hand between yours, though your fingers can't quite cover his. « Me neither, clever one ». There's something surreal about it. Will you wake up in an instant, and become someone else, a bird who can still fly? Or would you be a doll who has yet to be broken? Oh, how you'd twist and turn if you could, still. What you do now is but a farce, a shadow. « Are we really here? », you ask, a sparkle of wonder making its way through your rain-colored eyes. He had known such wonderful illusions, making you seem so ... weightless on his papers. What is art, but illusion? When you dance
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
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Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Sam 31 Aoû 2019 - 17:59
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ The ballerina stands here, looking at you closely like you were a wonder or a ghostly apparition. You can’t blame her; your pale skin creates rumors among your colleagues and a child asked you if you became a vampire. But there is a glint of malice in her eyes and you can help but being fond of her child like expressions. This encounter has a taste of fate. Like a precious game of hide-and-seek, you didn’t you were playing, you are fortunate she found you. Playing along, you rise your hands, taking a step back with mysterious words. She notices, your effort to place a slight distance between you. Your heart breaks a little, those cruel flowers are poison for your mind and you who were once so welcoming has now to be more distant to preserve your secret. However, a few words from her make you smile: “I won’t bite you know”. Playfully, you take a step towards her like you were pondering if you could believe in her. “Are you sure about that?” Your eyebrow is raised, and a smirk takes its place on your lips. When you first met, you couldn’t fail to notice the hurricane within her. The storm she was, making the stage hers, the most brilliant star. You love storms; it is common knowledge around you, so you had to meet her, draw her. Oh, you could have fall in love that night -but your heart is a bizarre mechanism. It made her your muse for the night, immortalizing her very being on a few pages.
But now that you see her again, something changed, something in her figure and in her eyes -the rain isn’t synonym of passion anymore. Something was missing. She looks like a supernova, and you heart sinks a little more. Unable to contain your wonder, you can help but say: “You- I never thought we will meet again.” Your eyes are seeking answers, in this desaturated vision of yours. Suddenly, her hands grab yours, causing you to follow her. They are so warm on you cold skin, you don’t want them to be gone. So, you don’t try escaping; your duty has ended for tonight. And after all, her laugh is a melody worthy of some troubles. She admits she didn’t expect to see you again either. Everything feels like a dream, and you won’t be surprised if other faces from the past come to appear. Maybe you will wake up, in a world of darkness and this moment was nothing but a requiem. After all, you’ve been incredibly fortunate since your return.
“Are we really here?” Your shoulders shrug, you are speechless. “I don’t know.” After all this time, life never fails to surprise you. You never expected your path to meet again and it seems like an illusion. A tender one. You laugh, again, as she’s calling you a trickster. A master of illusions of some sorts. “Haunt you? Don't be silly, I will never cause you any arm. I am as amazed as you! I’m so lucky.” One of your hand escape to make her finger go down. At the end, it is your hands that take hers, afraid that she would to try to run away if you’re too curious. Take your courage, you ask the question that is burning your tongue: “Why are you here?” Concerned, you are. You know too well the reasons that can lead you in this place.
But now that you see her again, something changed, something in her figure and in her eyes -the rain isn’t synonym of passion anymore. Something was missing. She looks like a supernova, and you heart sinks a little more. Unable to contain your wonder, you can help but say: “You- I never thought we will meet again.” Your eyes are seeking answers, in this desaturated vision of yours. Suddenly, her hands grab yours, causing you to follow her. They are so warm on you cold skin, you don’t want them to be gone. So, you don’t try escaping; your duty has ended for tonight. And after all, her laugh is a melody worthy of some troubles. She admits she didn’t expect to see you again either. Everything feels like a dream, and you won’t be surprised if other faces from the past come to appear. Maybe you will wake up, in a world of darkness and this moment was nothing but a requiem. After all, you’ve been incredibly fortunate since your return.
“Are we really here?” Your shoulders shrug, you are speechless. “I don’t know.” After all this time, life never fails to surprise you. You never expected your path to meet again and it seems like an illusion. A tender one. You laugh, again, as she’s calling you a trickster. A master of illusions of some sorts. “Haunt you? Don't be silly, I will never cause you any arm. I am as amazed as you! I’m so lucky.” One of your hand escape to make her finger go down. At the end, it is your hands that take hers, afraid that she would to try to run away if you’re too curious. Take your courage, you ask the question that is burning your tongue: “Why are you here?” Concerned, you are. You know too well the reasons that can lead you in this place.
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
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Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Dim 1 Sep 2019 - 18:43
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ You wouldn't bite (much). « Are you sure about that? » He knew you, as much as two souls meeting under the moonlight, under the cover of tempests growling and threatening to break everything, can know each other. There had been something honest between you both, this moment suspended in time, when you made yourself more pliable than ever, executing figure after figure for his eyes only, for his hands creating miracles on paper. And so, you laugh, mischief clear in your rain-colored eyes, pulling him with you in a corner, wonder and enchantment visible on your face. It makes you forget why you've come here, and you feel this peculiar brand of joy you haven't felt in such a long time that you won't let go of his hands. They feel cold, but you like the contrast, and ask him if you are both really there, if he meant to haunt you. Trickster. « Haunt you? Don't be silly, I will never cause you any arm. I am as amazed as you! I’m so lucky ». His turn, to lower your hand, cold against the heat of your own fingers, but you won't let go, afraid if you stop touching him, he'll disappear in the night and you'll never see him again. « Why are you here? » You bite your lip, as your eyes get clouded by regrets. Must the bubble in which you're both hidden burst so soon, bringing you back to a bitter reality? You look down, at your hands in his, small, a shade too pale - aren't you a ghost from his past?
What if you're the one disappearing, haunting him?
You never wanted to leave the stage. You never wanted to go. You didn't wish for any of this, but you're stuck here, and there are no happy endings to thisfairytale. Trying to compose an air of detachment, and failing at it, so hard, your gaze rises again, at last, to meet his. The sadness almost engulfs you, hard as a hurricane meaning to destroy everything in its path, and you nearly choke on the words. « what are any of us doing in a hospital? » But you regain your composure as soon as you've lost it, bringing your lips close to his ear.« Maybe I'm the one haunting you », you whisper. You feel like a ghost, more often than not. Like a pale shade of someone you used to be, clinging to this plane of existence because you're just too stubborn to move on. Haunting places, faces - is this why you're here? Because the artist is a shade of the past you so desperatly want to make tangible again, slipping through your fingers? « But I'm not an evil ghost », you whisper again. « Just one who missed you ». And so, you squeeze his hands harder, because no matter what tales you tell him, you need him to know you're real. That you're here. But he feels cold and distant, and so, you bring a hand to his chest, a sad smile across your face, the other gripping his as if he were the only port in the storm of your existence. « I remember the chaos we created ». And the symphonies within. A pause, and you look at him as if he had all the answers, as if he could bring you back, as if he could tell you everything would be alright. « Do you still paint, Dorian? » Dorian. The name, you haven't forgotten it - the name, or the man, or the face. You remember everything, regret none of it - except the fact that it's out of reach, now.
What if you're the one disappearing, haunting him?
You never wanted to leave the stage. You never wanted to go. You didn't wish for any of this, but you're stuck here, and there are no happy endings to this
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
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Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Mer 6 Nov 2019 - 0:28
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ As she looks down, you realized your mistake. Your curiosity killed something; you can feel it as her rain-colored eyes are now clouded by grief. Stupid you, you wish you could simply take her in your arms, say sorry for ruining her smile. But you know her, she would take your compassion for pity and reject it. Stubborn as she is, pride incarnated. She is trying to lie, a fake air of detachment as she once again rises her head toward you. Trying to stay strong, in her own way. Like you. This instant, you understand, you understand how the two of you have far more in common than you originally thought. You understand that, if anyone has to write a story about you, it would be a tragedy. Two ghosts of once prodigies, two shadows of lifeful artists.
A question, one that pierces your heart. What are any of us doing in a hospital? You could answer, for your part, “work” or anything like that. It is a lie, as you spend much more time that you should in the laboratory, hiding every time a light was coming too close. A liar. Sometimes you feel like you’re nothing but that. She must lie too, to protect herself from the crude reality. You won’t force her to reveal herself, you remember that night where you met. She will show you if you let her breath and conquer the space around her -and you will gladly surrender.
You watch her regaining composure with fondness on your smile. Eyes asking forgiveness, but mouth shut to not hurt her determination to keep her pride in place. It seems like she is the one trying to be a trickster. If you were indeed a master of illusion (and in a way, you are), she would make a great apprentice. You lean closer to her, so she can whisper to your ear. A laugh falls from your lips when she speaks. Thinking about that, you could be a ghost -you look like one, and sometimes speak like one. With a nostalgia filling up your words, a tender kind of nostalgia. As saying I’m happy it happened, accepting the fate that awaits you. She too, has the feeling of a ghost. But of a very different kind, the kind that will despise her present and future. “In that case, maybe I should be frightened of a ghost following me, but I’m not. I’m honored you make such a long journey to haunt me.” Your tone is low, brightened but your heartfelt grin. She squeezes your hand hard, reassuring you she won’t harm you -as if you could believe she will. Her hands are burning yours, flowers banishing any warmth from you very being. She said she missed you, gripping you as you were a light in the middle of a storm. The storm she endures, maybe it is devastating her from inside? “And I’m glad you did. Because I cherish those moments spent with you, Althea.” Her hand on your chest is salvation, and even in your clouded eyes you can still see that sad smile of her. How the world has must be cruel to you two. How hurt she must be. I remember the chaos. “I do too. I kept it.” Everything is kept in your place, memories you won’t let perish. Too afraid to let your soul becoming rotten with anger, you can only try to recall the happiness and not let sorrow win over your heart. It would stain them, this precious past, make it lost its beauty. Then she asks another question, to which your answer with a smile -strange mixture of sadness and relief. You show the blue paint smudged on your cheek from earlier. “Yes, I do. And I will, for as long as it is permitted.” Until the last petal blooms on your lids. You fear asking the same thing to her : so far away from when you met her, standing here, the unknown storm raging in her eyes. You start wondering if her skin is a shade paler or if it is a trick from your eyes. You bite your lips. “Do you still…” Do you still dance, do you still burn of the brightest flame, do you still is the hurricane I once met? “Would you let me draw you? Anywhere, anytime you want?” You put a hand on hers, keeping it against your chest. It is like you need to paint her. Once again.
A question, one that pierces your heart. What are any of us doing in a hospital? You could answer, for your part, “work” or anything like that. It is a lie, as you spend much more time that you should in the laboratory, hiding every time a light was coming too close. A liar. Sometimes you feel like you’re nothing but that. She must lie too, to protect herself from the crude reality. You won’t force her to reveal herself, you remember that night where you met. She will show you if you let her breath and conquer the space around her -and you will gladly surrender.
You watch her regaining composure with fondness on your smile. Eyes asking forgiveness, but mouth shut to not hurt her determination to keep her pride in place. It seems like she is the one trying to be a trickster. If you were indeed a master of illusion (and in a way, you are), she would make a great apprentice. You lean closer to her, so she can whisper to your ear. A laugh falls from your lips when she speaks. Thinking about that, you could be a ghost -you look like one, and sometimes speak like one. With a nostalgia filling up your words, a tender kind of nostalgia. As saying I’m happy it happened, accepting the fate that awaits you. She too, has the feeling of a ghost. But of a very different kind, the kind that will despise her present and future. “In that case, maybe I should be frightened of a ghost following me, but I’m not. I’m honored you make such a long journey to haunt me.” Your tone is low, brightened but your heartfelt grin. She squeezes your hand hard, reassuring you she won’t harm you -as if you could believe she will. Her hands are burning yours, flowers banishing any warmth from you very being. She said she missed you, gripping you as you were a light in the middle of a storm. The storm she endures, maybe it is devastating her from inside? “And I’m glad you did. Because I cherish those moments spent with you, Althea.” Her hand on your chest is salvation, and even in your clouded eyes you can still see that sad smile of her. How the world has must be cruel to you two. How hurt she must be. I remember the chaos. “I do too. I kept it.” Everything is kept in your place, memories you won’t let perish. Too afraid to let your soul becoming rotten with anger, you can only try to recall the happiness and not let sorrow win over your heart. It would stain them, this precious past, make it lost its beauty. Then she asks another question, to which your answer with a smile -strange mixture of sadness and relief. You show the blue paint smudged on your cheek from earlier. “Yes, I do. And I will, for as long as it is permitted.” Until the last petal blooms on your lids. You fear asking the same thing to her : so far away from when you met her, standing here, the unknown storm raging in her eyes. You start wondering if her skin is a shade paler or if it is a trick from your eyes. You bite your lips. “Do you still…” Do you still dance, do you still burn of the brightest flame, do you still is the hurricane I once met? “Would you let me draw you? Anywhere, anytime you want?” You put a hand on hers, keeping it against your chest. It is like you need to paint her. Once again.
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
- Spoiler:
- OMGG JE SUIS DESOLEE DU TEMPS D'ATTENTE & DE LA QUALITE !!
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Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Mer 6 Nov 2019 - 23:55
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ The darkness swimming in his eyes asks for forgiveness, and you give it, even with pain dancing in your own. Leaning in closer, enough to take in the peculiar flavor of who he was is, you whisper, stuck halfway between playfulness and nostalgia. Enchantment, hearing him laugh – you don’t provoke laughter much, these days. You inspire anger and annoyance, mostly, because you’re just that generous – always willing to share your misery. But you’ve spread beauty together, once, and you’d like to do it again. A vain hope, maybe, that you might go back to yesteryear. « In that case, maybe I should be frightened of a ghost following me, but I’m not. I’m honored you make such a long journey to haunt me ». His smile warms you as much as your hands must chase the chill away on his fingers, and you squeeze them hard, as if to anchor yourself in this reality you try so hard to escape. You’ve missed him, even if your time together was only fleeting. As he says your name, your other hand reaches for his chest – you need to know he’s really here. You need him to know you are really there as well. Smiling, you recall everything. The chaos. « I do too. I kept it ». You nod in understanding. « You seem a little bit … more wild », you say, head cocked to the side, observing him as you would have one of his paintings. « I like it ». Spoken like a true art critic. Then, the question that really burns you, because if you can’t don’t dance anymore, you hope he still paints. « Yes, I do. And I will, for as long as it is permitted ». Laughing at the paint on his face, you reach toward your own cheek, hand leaving his fingers only for a moment before going back to his cold skin. There is something different in his eyes, though – the weight of year(s), or an ailment you can only begin guessing? Maybe you remembered him differently, turning him into perfection in your mind’s eye. Maybe he was always this way – the fire raging in your nerves does attack your memory.
« Do you still… » You almost recoil, as if threatening to bite, when all the artist ever brought you was quiet in the peculiar brand of chaos you both created together. « Would you let me draw you? Anywhere, anytime you want? » A small sound escapes your throat, and you stare at the man as if you were seeing him for the first time. Eyes folded, almost uncertain if you can trust him with your fate – you want to tell him. That your body is your prison, a cruel ball and chain constantly threatening to drown you. But your nerves surprise you – a symptom of your illness. You were always impulsive, but whatever filter existed in you is long gone. « right now », you whisper, with a shade of anguish sliding into your voice. Suddenly, you really are afraid he’ll slip away, and you’ll never see each other again. Keeping your hands on him as if he were the last source of warmth you could find in a world that turned out to be too cold for angels with clipped wings, you bite your lip again, tempest eyes looking up. Saying please. Please don’t leave again, as if your fate hadn’t been doomed from the start, as if in an alternative universe, you could have found each other and stayed in place, resting in the eye of the storm – away from the noise, away from the pain, but entertwined in the messy chaos created when two souls recognize each other. « I’ve … » and your voice dies in your throat. You’ve what? You’ve changed. He’d find you hurt, desperately enraged at the whole world. You were a storm, when you met – you’ve become a hurricane, capable of beauty, but more importantly, of destroying everything around you. Untilhis her dark materials creates new worlds. « I don’t … » I don’t dance anymore. A half-truth. You still dance, with a brutality undermining whatever delicate grace was yours – before. Before your legs caught fire. Nerves ever-burning under your skin. « Are you still working? » Please say no. His hand on yours, and his heartbeat seems to be the only string tying you to reality. The easy exit to give you both – if he wants to get out of it, if you want to back out, to remain unseen. So that the Althea you used to be can continue to exist – in his mind, at least. Somewhere, stubbornly, you hope he’s free to leave with you, and you can both exist out of time for a little while.
@Dorian Jakobsen
« Do you still… » You almost recoil, as if threatening to bite, when all the artist ever brought you was quiet in the peculiar brand of chaos you both created together. « Would you let me draw you? Anywhere, anytime you want? » A small sound escapes your throat, and you stare at the man as if you were seeing him for the first time. Eyes folded, almost uncertain if you can trust him with your fate – you want to tell him. That your body is your prison, a cruel ball and chain constantly threatening to drown you. But your nerves surprise you – a symptom of your illness. You were always impulsive, but whatever filter existed in you is long gone. « right now », you whisper, with a shade of anguish sliding into your voice. Suddenly, you really are afraid he’ll slip away, and you’ll never see each other again. Keeping your hands on him as if he were the last source of warmth you could find in a world that turned out to be too cold for angels with clipped wings, you bite your lip again, tempest eyes looking up. Saying please. Please don’t leave again, as if your fate hadn’t been doomed from the start, as if in an alternative universe, you could have found each other and stayed in place, resting in the eye of the storm – away from the noise, away from the pain, but entertwined in the messy chaos created when two souls recognize each other. « I’ve … » and your voice dies in your throat. You’ve what? You’ve changed. He’d find you hurt, desperately enraged at the whole world. You were a storm, when you met – you’ve become a hurricane, capable of beauty, but more importantly, of destroying everything around you. Until
@Dorian Jakobsen
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
- InvitéInvité
Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Sam 21 Mar 2020 - 15:47
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ Elle te dit plus sauvage, et tu ne peux que l’avouer. Ton exil a porté dans ton cœur des vents d’aventure et d’adrénaline, des récits qui se teintent un peu plus de nostalgie à chaque fois qu’ils franchissent tes lèvres. Elle est une d’entre elles, de ces pages que tu as noircies de tes souvenirs. Une danseuse qui emporte le monde dans ses pirouettes, dont la voie lactée est la scène et les applaudissements l’apothéose. Peut-être que cette nuit t’a plus changé que tu ne le pensais, au fond. Tu ris quand elle dit aimer cette part de toi, tes yeux en croissants de lune et ta main sur la sienne. L’instant est doux, malgré les non-dits. Malgré les racines qui encombrent tes veines et martyrisent tes poumons. Un rire à la peinture venu colorée ta joue, tu perçois son soulagement en apprenant que tu peins toujours et cela t’interroge. Elle semble si triste, ta ballerine. En colère presque, non contre toi mais le monde. Ton index se lève pour dompter une mèche rebelle et dégager son visage. C’est comme un besoin, de l’observer, avant que des pétales ne viennent éclore sur tes paupières. Tu voudrais pouvoir la dessiner, de nouveau, tracer ses traits avec précision et tendresse.
Sa question, tu souhaites la retourner, t’assurer que la passion qui l’habite se traduit toujours sur la scène. Mais avant que tu ne puisses la prononcer, ta gorge se noue et elle s’envole. Mauvais pressentiment. Terrible, même. Il est présent partout sur son visage, alors, effrayé par cette potentielle terrible vérité, tu te tais. Sa présence a l’hôpital est une mélodie funeste. Alors tu choisis d’exprimer ton désir de l’immortaliser, de la peintre une nouvelle fois pour marquer à jamais ceheureux hasard. Un son s’échappe de sa gorge, et tu ressers ta prise sur sa main, comme pour la rassurer. Tant de vérités sont prisonnières de ses lèvres, et c’est avec patience que tu comptes l’aider à s’en libérer. « You can say no if you don’t fell like it. » rassures-tu avant qu’elle te coupe : « right now ». Ses yeux et sa main te supplient, et ton cœur se serre. Tu voudrais l’arracher à ses démons, aider à soigner ses ailes que tu devines meurtries. Silencieusement, tu pries Apollon de la bénir. Mais les dieux sont égoïstes et tu le sais. De nouveau, les mots meurent avant de pouvoir être formés et tu acquisses avec douceur. « That’s ok, take your time. I won’t leave your side. » Avec lenteur, tu inities le mouvement, pour disparaître au coin du couloir. C’est vers une petite salle que tu vous diriges, là où sont stockés ton matériel. Abandonnée depuis quelques temps, elle est trop éloignée des blocs importants pour que quiconque lui trouve une fonction de première nécessité. Ce sera donc parfait pour vous y retrouver à deux, à moins qu’elle ne souhaite s’enfuir. Et tu ne pourrais la blâmer. Tu tentes de ne pas écouter les plaintes de ton âme quand tu comprends qu’Althea ne danse peut-être plus. À cet instant ce ne sont pas tes émotions qui importent mais bien celle de ta compagne de voyage, dont tu te refuses de lâcher la paume. Elle te demande si tu travailles encore, et, sans mentir, tu réponds : « No, I’ve finished my duty. I just need to take my stuff, so I can be sure to do justice of your beauty. » Un clin d’œil et un regard pour s’assurer que tu puisses la lâcher le temps d’une seconde pour entre dans la petite pièce et récupérer ta sacoche.
À peine votre peau n’est plus en contact, tu te fais aussi rapide que ton corps fatigué peut le permettre. Quelques secondes s’écoulent et déjà tu as l’impression de trahir ta promesse en étant séparé d’elle aussi longtemps. Quand tu émerges, tes doigts trouvent les siens et tu la conduits vers la sortie. Tes prunelles sombres rencontrent alors la nuit et ton esprit la liberté.
Sa question, tu souhaites la retourner, t’assurer que la passion qui l’habite se traduit toujours sur la scène. Mais avant que tu ne puisses la prononcer, ta gorge se noue et elle s’envole. Mauvais pressentiment. Terrible, même. Il est présent partout sur son visage, alors, effrayé par cette potentielle terrible vérité, tu te tais. Sa présence a l’hôpital est une mélodie funeste. Alors tu choisis d’exprimer ton désir de l’immortaliser, de la peintre une nouvelle fois pour marquer à jamais ce
À peine votre peau n’est plus en contact, tu te fais aussi rapide que ton corps fatigué peut le permettre. Quelques secondes s’écoulent et déjà tu as l’impression de trahir ta promesse en étant séparé d’elle aussi longtemps. Quand tu émerges, tes doigts trouvent les siens et tu la conduits vers la sortie. Tes prunelles sombres rencontrent alors la nuit et ton esprit la liberté.
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
- Spoiler:
- je suis la pire.
- InvitéInvité
Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Ven 17 Avr 2020 - 21:50
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ Quelques instants, faire comme si vous étiez à nouveau dans une salle, loin, ailleurs – toi, une danseuse, et lui, un peintre. « You can say no if you don’t fell like it », but you can’t hear him, almost too taken by the idea, impulse begging you as you beg him. « right now », a whisper, anguish audible in your voice. Please don’t leave again. Tes doigts restent sur lui, suppliant, presque, mais il y a une telle douceur en lui que tu ne paniques pas. La montagne russe de ton âme te saisit si aisément, depuis que le poison danse avec tes nerfs, se distille dans tes veines. « I’ve … I don’t … » And the words die on your lips – how could you tell him? So few people in Inverness have seen you dance. The possibility of existing in his eyes for a little while makes you feel a treacherous mix of anguish and longing. « That’s ok, take your time. I won’t leave your side ». Tu hoches la tête, le suivant dans ce qui demeure un labyrinthe pour toi – tu n’as rien d’une guerrière affrontant les monstres, non. T’es bonne qu’à être blessée, Althea, et griffer en retour, feindre de ne pas comprendre lorsque l’univers se retourne contre toi. La question se glisse entre tes lèvres, parce que tu ne crois pas réellement que vous resterez, tous deux. Tu lui avais dit, jadis – I have a special talent when it comes to abandoning people. Il n’avait rien dit, l’artiste, mais tu as trop bien reconnu le reflet dans ses prunelles obsidienne. L’aveu.
Did he guess? It seems like all you’ve drawn is a breath, and here he is again, fingers entwined with yours, and you follow Apollo’s disciple outside – la nuit est douce sur ta peau, delicate contre ton coeur en peine. Tu regardes les constellations d’été, sans t’y être assez intéressée pour créer du sens parmi les taches lumineuses crevant l’obscurité de l’éther. Un soupir quitte tes lèvres alors que ta main libre se lie à ton coude en un geste instinctif de protection. Tu n’as plus l’habitude de ce genre de douceur, Althea. Tout en toi demande le chaos et la colère – you don’t know how to deal with the soft nostalgia flowing through you as your thumb lightly caresses his hand. « I don’t know how you stand them », murmures-tu enfin, même si tu invites encore les questions, levant les yeux vers Dorian pour préciser ta pensée « Hospitals ». Malgré tout, un index léger levé en prévention – don’t pursue this matter, sweet one. Tu le laisses t’emmener, wise enough not to question an artist’s inspiration.
Ness islands. La quietude du lieu et la fraicheur ambiante calment un peu ton appréhension, et tu emboîtes le pas de l’artiste, démarche rêveuse vous menant à la pointe de l’île – on en oublierait presque la ville, à quelques pas à peine. La nature semble avoir été morcelée et pliée selon la volonté humaine, avec une harmonie exceptionnelle. Te séparant enfin des doigts du peintre, tu fais quelques pas rêveurs, mettant de côté l’anxiété qui te gagne toujours au contact des médicomages, dans cet endroit sordide et aseptisé. Ici, tu respires à nouveau. Traçant un tour léger sur toi-même, le tissu de ta jupe se soulevant au rythme de ta minuscule pirouette, tu lui souris, apaisée par la végétation autour de vous. « How would you like me, Dorian? » I’d like me whole.
@Dorian Jakobsen
(( as he asks you to wait, your eyes caress the door, far away –
how easy it would be, to leave him with nothing but a faint memory of hurricane eyes
and the smell of roses ))
Did he guess? It seems like all you’ve drawn is a breath, and here he is again, fingers entwined with yours, and you follow Apollo’s disciple outside – la nuit est douce sur ta peau, delicate contre ton coeur en peine. Tu regardes les constellations d’été, sans t’y être assez intéressée pour créer du sens parmi les taches lumineuses crevant l’obscurité de l’éther. Un soupir quitte tes lèvres alors que ta main libre se lie à ton coude en un geste instinctif de protection. Tu n’as plus l’habitude de ce genre de douceur, Althea. Tout en toi demande le chaos et la colère – you don’t know how to deal with the soft nostalgia flowing through you as your thumb lightly caresses his hand. « I don’t know how you stand them », murmures-tu enfin, même si tu invites encore les questions, levant les yeux vers Dorian pour préciser ta pensée « Hospitals ». Malgré tout, un index léger levé en prévention – don’t pursue this matter, sweet one. Tu le laisses t’emmener, wise enough not to question an artist’s inspiration.
Ness islands. La quietude du lieu et la fraicheur ambiante calment un peu ton appréhension, et tu emboîtes le pas de l’artiste, démarche rêveuse vous menant à la pointe de l’île – on en oublierait presque la ville, à quelques pas à peine. La nature semble avoir été morcelée et pliée selon la volonté humaine, avec une harmonie exceptionnelle. Te séparant enfin des doigts du peintre, tu fais quelques pas rêveurs, mettant de côté l’anxiété qui te gagne toujours au contact des médicomages, dans cet endroit sordide et aseptisé. Ici, tu respires à nouveau. Traçant un tour léger sur toi-même, le tissu de ta jupe se soulevant au rythme de ta minuscule pirouette, tu lui souris, apaisée par la végétation autour de vous. « How would you like me, Dorian? » I’d like me whole.
@Dorian Jakobsen
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
- InvitéInvité
Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Lun 15 Juin 2020 - 13:16
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
mood ۞ Il y a, au fond de son regard, une tempête aux nuances fébriles. Tout ton être est pris dans les torrents d’émotions et d’aveux tacites, et c’est avec une délicieuse mélancolie que tu te laisses emporter. Ainsi le monde s’efface entièrement, si ce n’est vos deux êtres et vos âmes qui se languit du chaos de vos doigts d’artistes. À cet instant, rien n’est réel donc tout est possible.
À ses hésitations, insécurités, tu voues une promesse de patience et de douceur. Si le séisme est dévastateur, tu es persistant, et tu rebâtiras inlassablement. Sisyphe aux Enfers, peut-être que tu l’es, un peu. Mais pour toi la tâche n’est pas vaine, car Althea mérite bien plus qu’elle ne semble le penser. Ses doigts qui s’attardent sur ta peau, alors que tu t’éloignes, ils sont de ceux qui griffent pour se défendre d’ennemis invisibles et s’accrochent à ceux chez qui l’abandon est prompt. Alors oui, t’arracher à elle ne serait-ce qu’une poignée de secondes à sonner comme une trahison. Toi qui étais le fidèle et infaillible Dorian, ton exil a créé tant de crevasses douloureuses dans tes convictions. Des insécurités qui plient ton corps sous le poids de la culpabilité et soumet ton esprit à s’oublier pour en sauver d’autres, même les causes désespérées. Tes prunelles obsidiennes plongent dans l’océan des siennes et vos doigts se mêlent. Bouée à la mer, peut-être. Une dernière inspiration et vous voilà noyés dans la ville nocturne.
L’éther est calme et la brise que douceur. Le tumulte n’est dans les rues, mais bel et bien en toi -en vous. Et si Apollon n’est plus dans le ciel, c’est au cœur de vos paumes que l’on peut le trouver. Une douce chaleur, qui pourrait brûler les imprudents qui viendraient perturber ce moment. Le pouce de la danseuse dompte ton cœur appréhensif, pourtant son soupir t'interpelle. Ses épaules te paraissent soudainement si frêles, elles qui pourtant semblaient porter sans effort aucun le poids du monde lors ses performances. Le cadre dans lequel vous vous dessinez est si différent de votre dernière rencontre, là où elle était impératrice et toi simple vagabond. Tu resserres sa prise autour de sa main, pour la garder à tes côté et lui donner un peu d’intensité pour qu’elle ne se sente effacé dans la douceur de la nuit. Son murmure fait éclore l’ironie sur tes lèvres, et tu voudrais répondre -une plaisanterie, quelque chose de peu sérieux pour ne pas laisser la tragédie ternir ton front. Ne pas penser aux fleurs, ne pas penser à ses nuances si douces qui abandonnent ta rétine. Mais elle impose le silence et laisse ses mots s’enfuir loin de vous.
Ainsi, tu la guides jusqu'aux Ness Islands. Ici, tout semble plus calme, un lieu où le moindre remous devient une cacophonie qui se perd dans les étendues silencieuse. La ville s’efface dans le brouillard, et vous lui tournez le dos sans un seul regard vers elle. Vous la retrouverez bien assez tôt. Une harmonie règne, entre l’obsession de l’homme pour l’ordre et l’épanouissement de la nature têtue. Althea t’échappe, et tu la laisses faire. Un modèle qui se familiarise et dompte son environnement est d’autant plus intense à tracer, et c’est ce qui t’avait charmé lors de votre première rencontre. Tu souris à ses pirouettes, ton large carnet et fusain déjà dans tes mains. Dos à la Hécate pour laisser sa lueur caresser de sa lueur la pirouette de la jeune femme, tu ne réponds tout pas tout de suite à sa question. Puis tu lèves tes yeux pour rencontrer les siens, le regard intense -celui que tu arbores quand tes doigts sont noircis de tes croquis et que la fièvre de l’inspiration s’apprête à te frapper.“Whole.” Tu poses un genou à terre, comme une allégeance mais aussi pour garder un trait stable. “Everything you can offer, I want it.”
À ses hésitations, insécurités, tu voues une promesse de patience et de douceur. Si le séisme est dévastateur, tu es persistant, et tu rebâtiras inlassablement. Sisyphe aux Enfers, peut-être que tu l’es, un peu. Mais pour toi la tâche n’est pas vaine, car Althea mérite bien plus qu’elle ne semble le penser. Ses doigts qui s’attardent sur ta peau, alors que tu t’éloignes, ils sont de ceux qui griffent pour se défendre d’ennemis invisibles et s’accrochent à ceux chez qui l’abandon est prompt. Alors oui, t’arracher à elle ne serait-ce qu’une poignée de secondes à sonner comme une trahison. Toi qui étais le fidèle et infaillible Dorian, ton exil a créé tant de crevasses douloureuses dans tes convictions. Des insécurités qui plient ton corps sous le poids de la culpabilité et soumet ton esprit à s’oublier pour en sauver d’autres, même les causes désespérées. Tes prunelles obsidiennes plongent dans l’océan des siennes et vos doigts se mêlent. Bouée à la mer, peut-être. Une dernière inspiration et vous voilà noyés dans la ville nocturne.
L’éther est calme et la brise que douceur. Le tumulte n’est dans les rues, mais bel et bien en toi -en vous. Et si Apollon n’est plus dans le ciel, c’est au cœur de vos paumes que l’on peut le trouver. Une douce chaleur, qui pourrait brûler les imprudents qui viendraient perturber ce moment. Le pouce de la danseuse dompte ton cœur appréhensif, pourtant son soupir t'interpelle. Ses épaules te paraissent soudainement si frêles, elles qui pourtant semblaient porter sans effort aucun le poids du monde lors ses performances. Le cadre dans lequel vous vous dessinez est si différent de votre dernière rencontre, là où elle était impératrice et toi simple vagabond. Tu resserres sa prise autour de sa main, pour la garder à tes côté et lui donner un peu d’intensité pour qu’elle ne se sente effacé dans la douceur de la nuit. Son murmure fait éclore l’ironie sur tes lèvres, et tu voudrais répondre -une plaisanterie, quelque chose de peu sérieux pour ne pas laisser la tragédie ternir ton front. Ne pas penser aux fleurs, ne pas penser à ses nuances si douces qui abandonnent ta rétine. Mais elle impose le silence et laisse ses mots s’enfuir loin de vous.
Ainsi, tu la guides jusqu'aux Ness Islands. Ici, tout semble plus calme, un lieu où le moindre remous devient une cacophonie qui se perd dans les étendues silencieuse. La ville s’efface dans le brouillard, et vous lui tournez le dos sans un seul regard vers elle. Vous la retrouverez bien assez tôt. Une harmonie règne, entre l’obsession de l’homme pour l’ordre et l’épanouissement de la nature têtue. Althea t’échappe, et tu la laisses faire. Un modèle qui se familiarise et dompte son environnement est d’autant plus intense à tracer, et c’est ce qui t’avait charmé lors de votre première rencontre. Tu souris à ses pirouettes, ton large carnet et fusain déjà dans tes mains. Dos à la Hécate pour laisser sa lueur caresser de sa lueur la pirouette de la jeune femme, tu ne réponds tout pas tout de suite à sa question. Puis tu lèves tes yeux pour rencontrer les siens, le regard intense -celui que tu arbores quand tes doigts sont noircis de tes croquis et que la fièvre de l’inspiration s’apprête à te frapper.
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
- Spoiler:
- je suis encore plus la pire.
- InvitéInvité
Re: de nuit, on vit. (dorian)
Lun 27 Juil 2020 - 17:36
de nuit, on vit. | sur cette lune on danse. |
(new mood) ۞ Malgré la grâce de tes gestes qui s’effrite à mesure que tes nerfs s’incendient, tu ne perds pas tes réflexes – étirer les bras autour de toi, tracer un tour léger, pour occuper l’espace, sentir la fraicheur nocturne sur ta peau. Exister sur une scène improvisée, encadrée de branches et pour unique spectateur un homme qui perd la vue. « How would you like me, Dorian? », lui demandes-tu, souriant alors que les pans de ta jupe forment un arc autour de toi, complétant ta légère pirouette.
Il te semble ailleurs, déjà. Loin, le regard du médicomage, celui qui semblait vouloir te caresser pour te protéger du monde. La nuit de ses prunelles voit tout dans celle qui vous entoure et, instinctivement, tu veux te retourner, te cacher. He sees too much, and you give too little. « Whole. » une plainte étranglée échappe à tes lèvres, et ton regard s’arrache au sien, comme on retire les doigts d’une surface brûlante. Tu te retournes, faisant face à la rivière Ness, coudes emprisonnés de tes phalanges. L’échine qui tente d’être droite, gracieuse, capricieuse dans le défi qu’elle offre aux étoiles indifférentes au sort des hommes. « Everything you can offer, I want it». Dans ton dos, sa voix te caresse avec la douceur d’une tornade – elle semble vouloir t’arracher tes faux-semblants.
Offrant ta voix au silence nocturne, un rire mélancolique s’y glisse. «You always did see more than meets the eye, sweet one », et tu le regardes à nouveau, enfin. Jadis impérieuse, tu peux toujours l’être, c’est vrai – une danseuse joue d’abord la comédie, cherche à charmer son public, lui inspirer ce qu’elle souhaite. L’une d’entre elles n’est-elle pas devenue impératrice parmi les colonnades de grès de la rome orientale, jadis? « I don't have much », et il y a un mensonge, ici, mais en est-ce réellement un lorsqu’on croit proférer la vérité? Définie toute ta vie par ton art, comment se retrouver, se poser entre les lignes de son existence, lorsque la grâce t’échappe? « but you can have it » généreuse de la beauté que tu savais créer, avant, tu fais don de tes catastrophes avec autant de verve, si ce n’est moins de bienveillance.
La rage se dissimule si difficilement sous tes paupières, électricité menaçant de se décharger sur le monde qui t’entoure sans crier gare. Une colère qui ne demande jamais pardon, qui exige tout des autres et qui en donne si peu en retour, menaçant d’incendier des galaxies entières sans un regard en arrière. Tu retires tes chaussures, lentement. Inspiration lente. Redevenir une danseuse alors que tu n’as jamais véritablement cessé de l’être – ta malédiction, de te savoir si près de la virtuosité, sans pouvoir l’approcher, désormais. La vague rouge s’échoue à la lisière de tes doigts, épouse le rythme de la rivière qui vous enveloppe sans vous toucher. La peine, le linceul sombre que tu ne sais pas encore reconnaitre, trop occupée à vouloir hurler à la tête de l’univers – le deuil, camouflé sous les couches successives de hargne que tu montres désormais.
Et pourtant, tu lui offres tout, accès rare d’honnêteté – tristesse, rage de vivre, orgueil et impératif d’exister trop fort, trop vite. L’apanage des héritiers de godric, même nourris à l’aune des Pyrénées – négocier l’existence à coups de mentons relevés, l’éclat qui vibre dans les yeux, regarder la tempête dans le blanc des prunelles, rire quand elle vous emporte et vous transporte. Les mouvements se multiplient, hésitants, approximatifs, loin de ce que tu as pu lui offrir jadis – mais tellement plut honnête. Do you see it, tender one? I wish you would. I wish you could read my lines, and save me from saying the words.
@Dorian Jakobsen
Il te semble ailleurs, déjà. Loin, le regard du médicomage, celui qui semblait vouloir te caresser pour te protéger du monde. La nuit de ses prunelles voit tout dans celle qui vous entoure et, instinctivement, tu veux te retourner, te cacher. He sees too much, and you give too little. « Whole. » une plainte étranglée échappe à tes lèvres, et ton regard s’arrache au sien, comme on retire les doigts d’une surface brûlante. Tu te retournes, faisant face à la rivière Ness, coudes emprisonnés de tes phalanges. L’échine qui tente d’être droite, gracieuse, capricieuse dans le défi qu’elle offre aux étoiles indifférentes au sort des hommes. « Everything you can offer, I want it». Dans ton dos, sa voix te caresse avec la douceur d’une tornade – elle semble vouloir t’arracher tes faux-semblants.
Offrant ta voix au silence nocturne, un rire mélancolique s’y glisse. «You always did see more than meets the eye, sweet one », et tu le regardes à nouveau, enfin. Jadis impérieuse, tu peux toujours l’être, c’est vrai – une danseuse joue d’abord la comédie, cherche à charmer son public, lui inspirer ce qu’elle souhaite. L’une d’entre elles n’est-elle pas devenue impératrice parmi les colonnades de grès de la rome orientale, jadis? « I don't have much », et il y a un mensonge, ici, mais en est-ce réellement un lorsqu’on croit proférer la vérité? Définie toute ta vie par ton art, comment se retrouver, se poser entre les lignes de son existence, lorsque la grâce t’échappe? « but you can have it » généreuse de la beauté que tu savais créer, avant, tu fais don de tes catastrophes avec autant de verve, si ce n’est moins de bienveillance.
La rage se dissimule si difficilement sous tes paupières, électricité menaçant de se décharger sur le monde qui t’entoure sans crier gare. Une colère qui ne demande jamais pardon, qui exige tout des autres et qui en donne si peu en retour, menaçant d’incendier des galaxies entières sans un regard en arrière. Tu retires tes chaussures, lentement. Inspiration lente. Redevenir une danseuse alors que tu n’as jamais véritablement cessé de l’être – ta malédiction, de te savoir si près de la virtuosité, sans pouvoir l’approcher, désormais. La vague rouge s’échoue à la lisière de tes doigts, épouse le rythme de la rivière qui vous enveloppe sans vous toucher. La peine, le linceul sombre que tu ne sais pas encore reconnaitre, trop occupée à vouloir hurler à la tête de l’univers – le deuil, camouflé sous les couches successives de hargne que tu montres désormais.
Et pourtant, tu lui offres tout, accès rare d’honnêteté – tristesse, rage de vivre, orgueil et impératif d’exister trop fort, trop vite. L’apanage des héritiers de godric, même nourris à l’aune des Pyrénées – négocier l’existence à coups de mentons relevés, l’éclat qui vibre dans les yeux, regarder la tempête dans le blanc des prunelles, rire quand elle vous emporte et vous transporte. Les mouvements se multiplient, hésitants, approximatifs, loin de ce que tu as pu lui offrir jadis – mais tellement plut honnête. Do you see it, tender one? I wish you would. I wish you could read my lines, and save me from saying the words.
@Dorian Jakobsen
BY CΔLΙGULΔ ☾
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