/ By vangogh [+Watch]

Replies: 11 / 1 years 81 days 9 hours 36 minutes 39 seconds

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[center A dude just needs a place to keep his ramblings, alright?]


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[google-font] [yrsa [b Viking AU]
Okay i've been watching too much God of War and now on top of magic i think of Vikings and that means i just gotta write the original au i had in mind for Bjarnþór.

Bjarnþór would originally be the owner of a food shop, both meatery and bakery. Though he longs for battles and would eventually seek the battlefield by boat and with axe in hand, he'd be a cocky bastard who fights in bars and anyone who'll take him on.

His younger brother Jökull would be helping out in the store, a glorified bread boy of sorts. He's run deliveries around the village, but mostly wasting his time with friends.

Jón would be a blacksmith worker, and the main cause of Jökull's distraction, and would often tease him by calling him out on being a bread boy and how he has no reason to be spending so much time in the smithery. He would also be the one to help Bjarnþór with his weapon whenever it was needed, and although he is no forger he improves upon it.
  hobi / 331d 7h 9m 33s
[google-font] [yrsa [b Witch AU]
So I couldn't help but get distracted, and so instead of working on what I'm supposed to I tried to come up with a witch au for my OCs lol. With the simple premise of everyone having an inherent power , but can be taught all kinds of magic. Just as with languages where's no 'level cap' or anything stopping you from being just as good at all magic or even better at taught ones, as the only difference is that you were taught your inherent power from a young age—and thus it feels like it comes more natural cause you can't really remember learning it.

the base of the au would probably be around Bjarnþór , thus I focused mostly on him and his brother Jökull.

Bjarnþór: Inherent Fire Taught Potions , Taught Levitation , Taught Charms
He would be the owner of a magical store, selling potions and charms for a living. Yet long for the heat of battle and a chance to set everything in his path on fire.

Jökull: Inherent Harmoniser , Taught Potions , Taught Charms .
He would be helping out his brother at the store part time, but preferably spending most of his time wasting time with friends because he knows his brother won't scold him too harshly.

Jón: Inherent Levitation , Taught Fire
He would be a scholar, learning various brands of magic and pointing people in the direction of scrolls—a glorified librarian really.

Anna: Inherent Communications . Taught Conjuring , Taught Floral

Sóley: Inherent Aura Reader , Taught Levitation , Taught Potions
  hobi / 331d 7h 20m 13s
Jökull things.

At the ice rink with his brother, his brother's girlfriend, and her sister . He got there cause he begged them to give him a ride, but he ditched them to make friends with the icelandic team, as he is very much a people person (

Possibly addicted to headache pills ()

Parents possibly divorced??
Thus lives with his mum, but moves out with his brother fast??
Dad lives in America?? Or Aunt
Someone has to live there to send him his supreme stuff.

Met Jón in upper secondary.
Maybe met Sóley first, and then Sóley met Jón cause they both smoke??
Or maybe Sóley dragged them both together?
Or maybe Jökull dragged the two into a friendship? ()

Got a job with Sóley at his brother's café, broke the coffee machine twice ()

Either super cuddly ()
Or kinda cold and cocky ()

Is there a way to make him not like someone else?
Or am I just overthinking it all??

Zodiac maybe Sagittarius (), or Aries ()
Then again I lowkey don't like any other sign, I want my fire boy, and fuck all if I make him a Leo.
I could make him a scorpio??? No fuck that.
I don't like a lot of signs.
I mean Sóley could be changed into a leo???

but also not cause leos are usually diva bitches and i don't wanna deal with that.
then again, i think that about most signs. I mean she might be a pisces?? That's cute??
Btu also not really.
Maybe SHE'LL be an aries???
Fuck idk.

Maybe Sóley shouldn't even be in it, I just wanted my sweet NB baby to be in it, but that might be bad??? I mean i do love my trios??? a LOT???
Plus Sóley moved away a year ago??? so whether she was there or not won't really matter too much to the story???

I mean???
Though the thought of them would be nice.
Just, Jón and his anxious ass, Sóley and her bipolar, and then Jökull with his need to please ()
  hobi / 340d 16h 29m 16s
[google-font] [yrsa Sunlight filtered through the translucent curtains, embracing the room in soft orange hues, signifying the start of yet another day going by. A phone vibrated softly on the bedside table with incoming messages, too fast to be from just one person alone, it also showed the time of eleven thirty-five. Outside the window was the sound of traffic and people, all rushing to get somewhere.

A groan escaped from underneath the blanket, as through trying to coax the phone to turn itself into night mode and stop vibrating. Except the phone, and whoever was messaging him, didn't seem to care—or rather, cared too much. The groan turned into a snivel, and a birdsnest of black hair peaked from underneath the blanket to bury itself deeper into the pillow to chase the sleep that was quickly escaping. When sleep did not return to him, he turned over onto his back, bed suddenly far too warm for his quickly overwhelming body.

This was the commonality of his mornings; the constant texts, the too warm sheets, the noise outside. The time might change, but it was always the same. The city was always busy, the sheets were always warm, and his friends were always worried.

It wasn't until the room was bathed in silence that he finally reached his hand out to collect his phone, scrolling through the notification on his lock screen just to see who it was this morning. As it turned out it was surprisingly only one of his friends, and most of the texts were seemingly one worded. He wondered briefly if they'd finally gotten tired of him, despite the fact that one of the texts clearly said that two people were sick and the time said the others had class.

Without answering the texts he sat up, waiting for the room to stop pressing against his skull before stepping out of bed. His feet lead him to the bathroom, and the mirror cabinet. Tired eyes looked back at him before he pushed the door aside to take a look at the bottles of pills he kept there, and just like every morning he couldn't help but ask himself whether today would be the day.

It never was.
  hobi / 351d 11h 49m 50s
[google-font] 눈꽃이 떨어져요 [#ffffff [size9 Snowflakes are falling]]
[yrsa With his chin rested in the palm of his hand, he looked almost like a perfect painting. Eyes closed peacefully behind his glasses, as the fingers on his free hand drew soothing circles on his forearm, shoulders swaying to the beat of an unknown tune.]

또 조금씩 멀어져요 [#ffffff [size10 Getting farther away]]
[yrsa Outside the window snow was falling, the only light against the pitch black sky. On the wall, the clock read a quarter past midnight, ticking ever so slowly closer to half past. A half-empty cup of tea was on the table, having long since gone too cold to be drinkable. Next to it, his dead phone.]

보고 싶다 [#ffffff [size9 I miss you ]]
[yrsa He let out a sigh, stilling his hand, and briefly lifted his head from the palm of his hand, eyes blinking open to give the wall clock a glance. It was almost too hard to decipher the placement of the hands in the dark, just almost.]

보고 싶다 [#ffffff [size10 I miss you ]]
[yrsa Yet he had long since grown used to the darkness of the flat around him, and it didn't take too long before the numbers and hands on the clock made sense to him. His chest filling with a slow burning warmth at the realisation of what the position meant.]

얼마나 기다려야 [#ffffff [size9 How much more do I have to wait?]]
[yrsa Only ten minutes left now, he realised, and raised his free hand to rest his chin in both his palms instead of just one. Eyes once again falling shut, as lips tugged into a small smile that made his cheeks tense.]

또 몇 밤을 더 새워야 [#ffffff [size10 How many more nights do I have to stay up?]]
[yrsa How long had he waited like this, how many days and weeks of waking up in a cold bed, or accidentally making too much coffee. It wasn't as thought the loneliness was painful, not really. More akin to taking out the tea bag too soon, only realising too late that the taste wasn't up to par, yet drinking it anyway because it's still your favourite tea.]

널 보게 될까 [#ffffff [size9 Until I can see you? ]]
[yrsa The sound of a car penetrated the silence, followed by the sound of it's door shutting, caused his eyes to once again flutter open and straighten his back. The flutter in his chest intensified, at the familiar sound of the door to the entryway opening, then steps in the stairway. He rose from the couch as the steps passed the second floor, clearly heading to the top floor. The smile on his lips twisted as his eyes prickled with tears, almost overwhelmed by the butterflies in his chest. The jiggly of a set of keys the last piece before he finally managed to move his feet, walking perhaps a little too fast towards the door that was pushed open.]

만나게 될까 [#ffffff [size10 Until I can meet you? ]]
[yrsa Before the man had a chance to enter the flat, he was engulfed in a familiarly warm hug. He didn't even have to think as his hands moved up to wrap around the other's back, pulling him close. Not a single word managed to push past their lips before the tears started falling, the overwhelming familiarity finally breaking the dam of not quite loneliness.]

추운 겨울 끝을 지나
[#ffffff [size9 Past the end of this cold winter]] 다시 봄날이 올 때까지
[#ffffff [size10 Past the end of this cold winter until the spring comes again]] 꽃 피울 때까지
[#ffffff[size9 Past the end of this cold winter until the spring comes again until the flowers bloom again]] 그곳에 좀 더 머물러줘
[#ffffff [size10 Past the end of this cold winter until the spring comes again until the flowers bloom again stay there a little longer]] 머물러줘 [#ffffff [size10 Stay there]]
  hobi / 1y 18d 9h 31m 38s
[google-font][yrsa The most beautiful moment in my life happened around 2am in late autumn.

After having ridden in a car for the past three hours, we ended up at the beach where there was a metal staircase into the deep parts of the ocean by the bay. While i hated the company, there was something magical about watching the bright white moon reflecting on the surface of what I knew to be endless cold water. I can't remember what I was thinking, but I can only assume that a part of those thoughts lingered on drowning in the dark ocean.

I ended up taking off my shoes and socks; irrational and high on the thrill of life without consequences, or perhaps merely lusting for the cold embrace of death, I don't know. All I know is that the water was warm when I breached it's surface with my feet. That moment I remember, not visually, but emotionally. Like my lung took in more air than every before, as though time stopped for just a millisecond before resuming as the rest of my leg dipped into the water.

The steps were deeply spaced out, one step you were out of the water, the next you were up to your knee. I ended up sitting down on that step, letting the water lap against my ribs through my hooded shirt. The water by my toes was cold, and the contrast felt both comforting and surreal. As though I could push away from the steps and sink to the bottom of the blackness and disappear, only to find that I could still breath. Yet I kept my eyes on the moon and watched in silence as the clouds moved past, focusing on the slimy sensation of the algae growing on those metal steps.

I always remember this memory as though I was alone on those steps, but distantly I can remember bumped shoulders, loud splashing, and laughter. Thought I'd rather not linger on those, as those are what remind me that I probably thought of death seeing that ocean. Like the 52 hertz whale i was sitting on those steps surrounded by happy people who forced me to choke on my own depression, unable to hear my pleas for help.

One day I hope to return to those steps on my own, to reform the most beautiful moment in my life so that it is truly beautiful to the core. Yet I fear that if I were to go, I'd step off those steps and sink into the depths without resurfacing, weighed down by the stones of my own sorrows.

Then again, perhaps being the last moment of my life would make it all the more beautiful.
  hobi / 1y 24d 8h 5m 9s
[google-font][yrsa In a flurry of wind the snow already falling spun around in soft twirls, turning the peaceful scenery into something lively and joyous. Together with the soft music lulling from his headphones, the world seemed almost like a masterpiece, or a dream. As though any second he would open his eyes and stare at the creamy white ceiling inside his apartment, trying to cling to the memory of snow as it slipped through his fingers.

Lips moved around words without making a sound, head tilted backwards to catch a glimpse of the light grey sky, pretending there was a camera watching him as he became the star of a music video as he hesitantly reached his hand towards the sky. The snowflakes felt cold against his skin as they landed on his fingertips, and as though they were the rarest butterfly he slowly bent his fingers and brought his hand back towards his face. With a tilted head, his gaze fell on the now water drop, as he pretended to croon words of love to it with curled lips. A soft smiled played on his lips, before he closed his eyes and took a breath, breaking the fantasy he had let himself fall into.

When he opened his eyes, he was still outside in the snow. Standing in the middle of the hill separating his street from the highway. Grey eyes glanced around to see if anyone had seen him, but no one was around to mock him, as expected of a small town at five thirty in the morning. He continued down the hill, trying to make his feet move almost like a dance without too much movement, lips still curling around the hook of the song. At moments like this he didn't want to be anywhere else.

He loved winter. The snow always managing to make the world seem less cruel, always bringing beauty anywhere it went without trying at all. However snow was fragile; the warmth of a body enough to melt it into nothingness, the softest of touch enough to crush it into nothingness. A part of him related to the snow, to the beauty from afar that would break at even the slightest of physical contact. As though they were both made to be captured on photographs but never interacted with outside of those instances. Other times he wished he could be the snow, to melt into the very earth and reform into something unlike himself, or left the wind carry him to unknown places, just waiting for the warmth that would be his doom.

A sigh passed his lips, as the song came to a close, and he stepped from the soft blanket of snow onto the sludge of the pavement. While the flurry of snow still fell from the air, it suddenly held a tone of hopelessness rather than beauty, or perhaps that was just him.
  vangogh / 1y 36d 11h 22m 37s
[google-font][yrsa The quiet city streets were warm with fallen autumn leaves, illuminated sparingly by the moon hidden behind soft clouds, providing a comforting crunch with every step taken down the lonely roads. Smoke escaped past chapped lips, and trailed up towards the sky to make clouds of their own, before dispersing into nothingness. A soft hum from music in headphones was carried along with the breeze, accompanied by a slight sniff, and the scuff of a sole against pavement. Leaves in the path of the shoe fluttered into the air for a slight second, before settling once again.

The person with the headphones paused and looked at the leaves where they now lay shuffled, eyes drifting towards the moon in the sky, as if only now realising the surrealism of the city at three o'clock. Hands drifted to the headphones, pulling them down to rest against collarbones, spilling music which filled the street with another kind of warmth.

The cigarette returned to chapped lips, but not a breath was taken.
Instead, the cigarette was dropped to the ground, and eyes fluttered shut.

A breath,
A sniff,
A sigh,

The silence was then shattered by the sound of running feet, sneakers slapping harshly against the concrete, causing the autumn leaves to rise in a flurry and scatter into the streets. More of the street became visible, as the steps became louder and longer, breath speeding up and music following along in high pitched vocals.

A screamed passed those chapped lips, a confession, an aching plea.
A dog barked in the distance, alerted by all the noise.

Yet the feet did not stop until the street made way for the ocean, the loud splash of a body hitting the cold water the last sound before the streets were once again engulfed in silence. The only sign that anything had happened was found in the scattered leaves, and a still glowing cigarette three streets over.
  vangogh / 1y 38d 9h 55m 30s
[google-font][yrsa Tired eyes met his in the mirror, before he let his gaze drop, unable to stand the feminine features looking back at him. The naturally arched eyebrows, prominent cheekbones, lush colourful lips, and pointy chin all clear signs that he was just kidding himself. All arguments for why he was clearly just a girl unable to accept herself as a lesbian, rather than the man he was. He closed his eyes, trying to will the tears away because boys didn't cry. Bitten nails digging into the palm of his hand, and toes curling so harshly the sole of his feet ached, in hoped of distracting himself.

It wasn't healthy, then again nothing he did these days was. He had long since accepted his fate, it was just a waiting game for when he'd finally cave and give up on his useless existence. There was no point in trying to accept himself since it would never be enough anyway, there was no point in changing himself either since he always picked feminine idols anyway, there was no point to anything he did because the bridge was already burned. The only way he could make it through life would be to accept what people told him: to just be a girl, to love his birth name, to wear dresses, and grow out his hair.

He had tried, by god how many times he had tried. Yet the longer time went by the worse it got: the lump in his throat making it impossible to breathe, the sound of his name feeling like fingers against his eyes, his mirror image distorting to the point where nothing but blood could sooth him. All of it was too exhausting.

A sigh escaped past his lips, as his eyes strayed back to the mirrored door on his bathroom cabinet. He had to meet those tired eyes if he wanted to reach the bottle he sought so badly, and they still looked nothing like his. The person in the mirror felt so much like a person on the streets that it made his stomach ache with stones, and his next breath came out shakier than he'd ever like to admit.

For he was weak. Weak to their words, weak to their demands, a fucking doormat as his therapist had said.

He pushed the mirrored door aside harsher than intended, and watched the shelves shake with the force of it. The orange bottles vibrating, threatening to fall, before stabilising again. It had become quite a collection, months of medication skipped just for this moment, just waiting on the shelf day after day. This wouldn't be the first --or even the twentieth-- time he reached for them this month, hands closing around the nearest one yet staying there, unsure. He knew this was what he wanted, these was nothing but death that could release him from this pain he was in.

Yet he had a glimmer of hope, a silly thought that maybe if he pushed through he could get enough money to leave this place. If he just worked harder and allowed them to hurt him for just a few more months, surely he could book a ticket and move far away. Surely if he got away he could change his name without them finding him, surely he could get a therapist, surely he could get hormones, surely he could be who he was.

Deep down he knew it was unrealistic. He wasn't stable enough to hold a job for more than a week with having to hear his birthname. He wasn't stable enough to giggle and speak in a high pitched tone for hours on end. He wasn't stable enough to not break out in a sunshine smile any time someone called him "boy".

So he pulled the first bottle out of the cabinet and popped the lid, watching the white pills fall into a heap in the centre of his shaking palm. With his free hand he pushed the handle for the tap upwards, letting the loud sound of water overpower the sound of his heart. Perhaps he should have prepared a bath, surely that would be more romantic. It was a sickening thought, but it was all he had. If he couldn't achieve anything in life at least he could have an aesthetic death–the ones you saw in painting and perfectly choreographed films. He shook his head and shoved the pills into his mouth, before ducking his hands under the tap to wash them down with water.

He would have time, they were only seven pills. He could draw up a bath while picking out his favourite pair of chinos, and that sweater that made him feel the most like a man. He could bring the other bottles with him to the tub, put them in a row by the wall, surrounded by candles. A part of him wondered if he should spend the last of his money on flowers, scatter petals on the floor and in the bath, make it surreal enough to take away the blow. To make it seem less like a sad boy killing himself in a tub and more like a photograph by a haunted artist trying to express their emotional turmoil.

A chuckle passed by his lips, twisted into a sob by the points of his teeth. Who was he fooling. Whoever found him would just see a silly girl who was too selfish to just let others decide what was supposed to make her happy, a selfish girl who only wanted to hurt her parents in a selfish act of defiance when all they did was love her right. It filled him with anger, and he took one of the bottles on the shelf to chuck at the wall, yearning for the satisfying sound of dozens of pills scattering on the bathroom floor.

Afterwards there was a false silence, the overpowering thudding of his heart blocking out the sound of the tap and the echo of the pills spinning on the floor. It felt like fingers pressing down on his throat just hard enough to stop his breathing. It made him stumble, fumbling for the cabinet and the other bottles. With them in hand he stumbled to the bathtub, still clad in his ugly red pyjama pants and the ugly mustard yellow shirt he had taken from his brother all those years ago. It didn't matter what he looked like, nothing he did would make him look like a boy anyway.

So he opened the next bottle and turned on the tap to the tub, washing them down with room temperature water. Then he opened the next, and the next, and the one after that. The water in the tub slowly rising and dampening his clothes. He didn't bother writing a note, as the only words in his heart were bitter 'this is your fault', 'i hope you're happy', and 'maybe in my next i won't have parents who tell me that all my feelings are hypochondria and that they know best as to what i actually want and need.'

Instead he simply closed his eyes and tried to find comfort in the water, hoping that rebirth was the truth and that he'd be happy in that life, despite the fact that he knew he would wake in a few hours cold and still alive. Because life was never fair, and no matter how many pills he swallowed they were never quite enough.]
  vangogh / 1y 38d 13h 19m 52s
[google-font][yrsa The beat that by now had become almost second nature, was vibrating across the floorboards of his studio. His feet following it almost mechanically: a broad step to the left with the whole body, a sharp twist to the right, a foot crossed behind the other once, twice, shoulders bobbing with the tempo in tandem. He couldn't remember where the song ended , nor where it started, all of it an endless loop of noise that made no sense outside of the auditory cues.

Hours had passed since he entered the studio, and the sun had long disappeared past the horizon. Hours had passed since he checked his phone, and the near-constant vibrations had started to become parts of the song. Hours had passes since he had a drink of water, and the empty bottle stood abandoned next to his phone on the counter by the mixer.

He didn't want to think about it. About the look of worry on his flatmate's face, the empty love behind his mother's, or the overwhelming guilt they both induced. The guilt of wasting his time dancing without improving was hardly better, but at least it was productive unlike the hours wasted laying in bed staring at the wall. Even so his mind kept straying towards darker thoughts, of broken mirrors and torn skin, of self inflicted bruises and a strained throat from screaming. Yet he didn't make a sound beside panting, nor did he raise his fist to destroy his reflection, for there were people in the room beside him and they would surely worry if he made a single noise beside the thumping of his feet.

It wasn't always like this.

At one point dancing had been a light in the darkness, something that made his cheeks hurt from smiling and limbs ache from flailing enthusiastically. Back then he hadn't cared about being good, he just wanted to have fun and be able to become one with the music he enjoyed above everything else. Yet now it was nothing but a self destructive distraction, something to make him feel worse about his love and his body, specifically there to swallow up the guilt he felt everywhere else. He couldn't remember if he had ruined it for himself with expectations and perfectionism, or if it had been the tooting voice of his mother as she told him to stop being silly, or even the downcast look of the friend that told him 'you're so good you make me feel bad about dancing'.

It wasn't anything new that he made his friends feel bad, either. He was thin enough to make his friends tell him they needed to diet to look more like him, loud enough to make them feel bad about their timidness, boastful enough that they hid their talents. Though none of that hurt as much as how he always ended up dragging them down into his pit of depression by speaking of it too often. His entire existence had become filled with complaints, aggression, and tears. He had become desperate for his friend's affection, for their reassurance, and attention. Yet any kindness filled him with guilt, making him comparing himself to the dogs he hated for their clinginess.

Many years ago, he had cut of friends at the first sign of clinginess. Had spit and sneered at 'i love you's, made faces at the tears in their eyes before rolling his eyes and turning his back on them. Yet now he had become just that; holding back from saying 'i need you so much it hurts' with tears in his eyes.

His foot didn't step as much to the left as it needed to go, and for a moment everything felt still. As though the floor were to open up beneath him at any movement, he started into the mirror at his own reflection, as if begging it for help. Of course, he did not fall through the floor. The music continued on, different now without the accompany of his feet. He could still hear his heart and his breath, both almost overpowering the music, yet not loud enough to disguise the fact that his phone had stopped vibrating. His flatmate finally giving up on trying to reach him, on telling him to please come home, to take a break, to drink water.

Tears were travelling down his cheek, and he took a shaky breath before shaking his shoulders. He lifted his leg and shook that too, then the other, before rolling his shoulders and getting back to the starting pose to wait. Suddenly it was obvious where in the song it was, and he waited the half a minute it took for it to start from the beginning, before restarting.

A broad step to the right with his full body, left foot forward, right crossing behind it. The stars where bright in the sky, and the last train slowed down at the nearest station, doors opening with a loud gust of wind. A half turn lead by the left foot, torso leaning to the left with crossed arms, right foot rotating to centre, followed by the torso leaning to the right. Passengers from the train huddled into the bus that would take them to the city centre, heads leaning against the window to try and catch a small glimpse of sleep before walking home. A kick forward, shoulders bobbing to the beat, quick crossed steps to the side. In a flat twelve minutes away, teeth bit into a swollen lip, thumb hovering over a dimmed phone screen that turned black before the skin could touch the illuminated name. A broad step to the left with the whole body, a sharp twist to the right, a foot crossed behind the other once, twice, shoulders bobbing with the tempo in tandem.

He couldn't remember where the song ended, nor where it started, all of it an endless loop of noise that made no sense outside of the auditory cues. He didn't want to think about it.
  vangogh / 1y 40d 5h 29m 38s
[google-font][yrsa He knew it was a terrible habit to have, but the thought of it did nothing but bring a huffed laugh past his lips, followed by puffed smoke. The cigarette was once again brought up to his lips, and he took another deep inhale, feeling the smoke curl around his teeth and down his throat, mixing with the air. His tired gaze drifting up towards the grey clouds, watching as they slowly rolled across a greyer sky, before he closed his eyes to just listen to the bustle of the streets bellow. To the clicking of heels, the whisper of chitchat, and the occasional car.

A part of him wondered if it mattered whether it was ten or twenty, if three packets would kill him faster, or if he'd just have to wait like everyone else. Another part of him wondered what the ember would feel like against his skin, how much it'd hurt if he pressed it against the inside of his wrist until it went out. He opened his eyes to dispel the thought, blowing the smoke out of his lungs and watching it disperse into the sky above.

Days like these weren't unusual, where he'd spend hours out on the balcony looking at the sky in melancholy, going through cigarettes until his vision would swim. Some days he eventually fell asleep out on that balcony, other times he'd sit on the railing waiting for the courage to let go, but more often than not he was huddled in the corner before eventually going inside again.

The depression had been a permanent presence in his life for so long now, that he rarely saw the fault in his habits anymore, only aware by the looks of his friends that what he was doing was wrong. Yet here, alone on the balcony, he could hardly care for their thoughts. This was his own little bubble away from the world, where he was free to taste his emotions without anyone worrying about the outcome.

He took the last breath of the cigarette held in his hand, before reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket with his free hand to grab the packet. With a slight fumble to his by now numb finger, he managed to get a fresh one out of the packet, exhaling the smoke too early in frustration. He pressed the new cigarette against his lips, and used the butt of the other to light it with five quick drags. Once he was sure that it was lit, the useless butt was flicked over the railing and onto the streets.

A part of him couldn't help but follow it with his eyes longingly, wishing he could toss himself as easily at he had it, but knowing it would never be so easy. He closed his eyes again, curling up closer to the wall to preserve some warmth, and took the first drag of what would be his eleventh cigarette out on that balcony that day. [right Today was nothing unusual.]
  vangogh / 1y 58d 7h 30m 35s

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