albatross

lore heavy revamp!
please dont draw w apparel!!!




art by @cdrbindwar


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art by @lumi01



art by @eskoniss



art by @shiverstar






















between half full and half empty lies a mountain with reaching fingers, splitting the sky in two. i used to think it was playing cats cradle with the wind, folding paper airplanes with solid clouds. fingertips kissing most teasingly against sudden yet blinding mist, now i only see a long lost lover flirting with death.

do not reach too high little albatross; the stars burn, my dear!








act 1. evidently, things should be this way: for the simple yet overwhelming reason-- because it has always been this way.

this is a story of two people, and then one. this is a love story; but this is not a story of love-- never has been, never will be. maybe this is a story of the classical tragedy, a time traveler and an immortal, maybe this is the story of finding out which is which.

maybe this is a story of deceit and honey smooth deception, sweet on the tongue, maybe this is a story of how we won.

ready or not, the curtain is pulled. the actors dance when the music starts.




it starts in a fairy lights bedroom, scissors askew, stapled to the ceiling. for the faeries, so tempting with their words, visiting him every night. the lights are on, even them, how bright is bright enough to chase the shadows from under the bed? how good is good enough to grantee your own eternities, immortalized amongst stars and stars and stars?

to all eyes, this is what they see:

he likes stars, little construction paper cutouts on spray-painted cardboard. he's a sock puppet, astronaut helmet glow-in-the-dark bedposts kid at heart. those little kids with moms to tuck them into lonely rooms from an outsider's perspective. the changing of times, that pictured childhood of the new western tragedy. he's nostalgia, the smell of wonder bread and early bus-stop mornings and little league baseball and cheap soft serve machines and white white white of little picket fences and perfect little lawns cupping perfect little houses and blonde haired housewives and checkered tablecloths and 'it-has-always-been-this-way-s' and tulips, tulips-- soft, choking things, the claustrophobia of a utopia, the flicker of a butterfly's wing out the corner of a classroom window daring you to dream, something both infinitely terrifying yet unimaginably thrilling like brushing against an invisible border of your cocoon and pushing.

do not ask, but he can tell, stories of a world he forgets through dream and reality.

do not ask, but he can tell, when the lights are off and toes are sticking out, too tall now, this growing boy, he still fears the monster under the bed.

we are children forever, unless we until we grow up and slide into awkward adolescence and meek formalities in suffocating neighborhood barbecues when i
want
selfishly
crash this fair weather party; we are not beautiful people.

dance with me, in the rain.
(hear that?) (swarm like sharks, swim like bees)
but this is not a fairytale love story, never a fairytale love story.



do not delude yourself, we were always two wolves amongst sheep, two sheep amongst wolves. but when we find ourselves, too often we do not like what we see; maybe that is why opposites attract. (the kiss is all teeth, with the faintest swipe of blood.)

when have you realized, when have you seen? ask her, ask her, does the gilded cage sing? is it the cat or the canary?

too big for this slowly turning world, too beautiful for just one history, when we catch a star the first we ask and the first it answers is: all will become beautiful in it's time.

and we are left clutching marcescent scraps like a blanket in a snowstorm. hunger does not make exceptions for anyone's children; but we, who know how to starve, stand on tippy toes at god's high table full of feast and privileged sultry. if they are careful, we will never know. if they are careful, we will wait until the faintest slip. if they are careful their whole life, we will wait for their son, and their son's sons, and we will wait and wait. hunger takes us all equally; stars bleed the same as men-- first little lies then illness, taking like plagues in only fairytale tragedies! scarlet and golden and ugly.

we are only human, liking out habits and little behaviors. we pick our scans; some wounds aren't meant to heal. but we spend our meagerly granted eternities trying all the same.

for all the small sciences we know, it will always be this way, for the simple yet overwhelming reason-- because it has always been this way.








g14 on fathers side!
g14 on mothers side!

ooh fancy, mom is g1 imp!