100 Ashan, 724
.
Always down for a challenge, a young alcoholic with the mixed blood of an Eidisi, a Biqaj and Human, was morally driven short of any pride. This trial was a trial meant for drinking and celebration. It was custom for consumption to begin at the cusp of dawn and continue throughout the night until the same time during the next trial. Kotton had even overheard the monumental dare that anyone who manages to drink for the entire period is proclaimed as blessed and smiled upon by Ilaren herself. Now, he was a little rusty on who Ilaren was, but if they possessed the title of immortal, his passion was instantaneous to grow tenfold. But why was this happening now of all times? He was trying his best to remain sober. He was attempting to experience life as it was meant to be lived- clearheaded and devoid of anything mind-altering. He was struggling to cast out the evil drink and hoping to find complacency in the every day. Was he able to hold himself true to his sobriety or would he give in to what he so easily could be passed off as a religious proclamation of jubilee?
Oh, how the young man’s heart ached. And his brain, man, was it as lit as a fire- a fire sparked from a negligent person who had forgotten their fireplace was ablaze, fiery smoulders of a family portrait desperately wishing to be dissolved into imperceivable ashes. Kotton wished he could turn his mind off with the flick of his hand. Kind of like how he silenced Worick that one day using sign language. It was actually sort of funny- he just had to look away and not hear and-
It didn’t help that there was an implicit bet placed upon the population. And Kotton was a betting man. He stayed away from gambling with the sole purpose of not wanting to become addicted, as his personality was unreasonable hardwired to. It also didn't help that had struck up a deal with the immortal of unluckiness or something. But this? There was a prick against the folds of his brain that itched like a poisonous insect bite. He wanted to scratch it with unfiled nails, to really dig into the flesh so that bruises manifested and declared the need for treatment. But no.
His journey with discipline had been progressing at an impressive pace. He had learned to ignore the facets of joy that came from the smell of the liquor that wafted from the taverns he passed after work. He had been practicing his decision to deny beverages imbued with heavy alcohol content. He had even directed his attention to that of misdirection and distraction, disregarding ale in the stead of a chamomile tea right before bed.
But this? This celebration, or whatever it was, suggested something far more enticing than staying consistent to a dry plan. He wanted to appease every immortal, whether he believed in their domains or not. He desired to be a name on everyone's radar, to create a title for himself so that he could be contemplated during a time in his life when it became necessary. Even if his understanding of Ilaren was rough, he did know some facts about her and they propagated his mind like a male flower casting out his seeds to a stigma.
Ilaren, Ilaren… he racked his brain for a description associated with such a lovely name. And there it was, stashed away in a wayside drawer of his mind. Only two words were prominent enough to amuse his memory and they were: sound and alcohol. Well the former made absolute nonsense to the nearly deaf man, but the latter was something he could easily vote for.
Still, he persisted, resisting the call of the liquor he had stashed at the very bottom of his ice box. His mind was torn in two. He wanted to accept the job and reign top performer in a challenge he had no right in participating in, but he also wanted to stick to the program he had designed for himself, for the betterment of who he was as an individual.
The clashing thoughts continued to wage a war inside his mind and they paid no mind to the priceless renovations he had constructed during the last time he had tried to find common ground circumspective of inner peace. The walls were thin as they were, but adding claws and... hammers? What was the effort in spending trials finding peace if you could just make some yourself? Also known as alcoho-
Kotton shook his head as hard as he could before inadvertently inflicting a headache onto himself. The last image his eyes landed on before they closed with the will to seek equilibrium was that of a blurb he had written. He had written this blurb in the attempt of inspiring some languid decision to advance.
With wavering hands, he took the page from its spot against the floor and brought it as close as he could to read it. ‘I’ve tried in the past, but never managed to write with a free hand. There are so many forms of expression out there, so many templates, so many passages created without constraints. I will create something like this. I just-’
And the lettering spontaneously became fuddled and illegible, with only the potential for and auspicious soul to devour and eject sense of the words. There was no delay in imagination. Kotton reached for the nearest pencil and proposed a piece straightaway, one that would wake even the most tired.
‘You always hear about those happy people
In the words written down on papyrus by
Delicate fingers and swift hand movements
To create the elegant swoop of of the ‘L’
The gentle dot over the ‘I’
The majestic curve of the ‘E’
But what you do not know if the truth
Behind those happy faces
Those faces that hide secrets
Those faces with odd smiles
And nonexistence crinkles near the eye
When you laugh at the jokes you hear
About the kid who cannot figure out
What she wants in life
It is these faces that tell a story unlike
The version crafted with dainty intricacy
By a master at deception
Her face
And her nose
And her eyes that shimmer in the glint in the morning sun
Her hair that rarely looks dishevelled
And her lips always red like the roses in the summer
Her everything remains in this veil of obscurity
But what lies deeper still
In the hollow caverns inside
Are much different from the exterior she so admirably portrays
You see, her personal life remains under cover
A thick layer of dirt keeps it safe like the grave she’s dug for herself keeps the coffin
But she does have friends
They are not friends like you nor I
They are not friends that can be seen
They are not friends that encourage or inspire with the positivity needed to progress
No, they are not friends at all really
They are figments of an imagination
An imagination darker than any nightmare you’ve had in the past five years
They are voices that whisper menacing requests
Voices that command absurd actions
These are the voices that tell her it is necessary to wear a mask to conceal the truth behind her dark eyes,
Marred flesh,
Visible bones
The smile may be fake, but her story is not
She really was taken advantage of by the one she thought most dear
She really did life her shirt and wriggle out of her pants to bend over
She really did let him take her like the wind takes all the seeds that fly from flowers during the spring
And she really did let him abuse her while she sat there and looked out the window at the sky whose tears matched her own
Her laugh may be feigned, but her story is not
She truly thought she looked strange in the image that looked back at her in the mirror
She truly wondered if she forgot about breakfast ,she would become more beautiful
She truly thought exercising three hours every day while running on two digit calories was going to appease the sinister tongue in her mind
And she truly thought everything was alright when her ribcage stuck though her flesh and her wrists were the circumference of quarters
Now, the skip in her step may be a sham, but her story is now
She genuinely felt like the tension when she pushed was the fall of dumbbells onto her shoulder based by life’s need to oppress those who thought differently
She genuinely felt like her veins were where the monster hid and screamed at her with obscenities and insults she could not handle
She genuinely felt that the metal shard she pressed against her skim would help release those demons that caused her so much mental pain
She genuinely believed that a little deeper wouldn’t hurt, and that she wouldn’t become addicted to the pain, that she could stop whenever she felt like it
Memories aside, this girl
This helpless girl
This sad and broken girl
This girl who has gone through so much…
Let’s just say, I’m still standing here aren’t I?
And that makes me one of the bravest people I know.”
Kotton’s pencil had met the wood, that’s how dull it had become during his journey through rhythmic and distracted time. The peace that enveloped him was surreal. It was only mimicked by sedative drugs or intensive insouciance, which meant that this latest encounter was undoubtedly one he would remember.
He fought to bring himself back to reality. He fluttered his eyelids until they could handle the light that illuminated his workspace. He bit his lip, picked at a dead piece of skin surrounding his nose and narrowed his eyes against the notches of graphite made in his journal. His eyes stung from staring, so he rubbed them with the back of his hand. There was nothing left of him energy-wise. So the only thing he was able to do was glance at his penmanship and wonder. Could those ‘c’s have been more curved? Could his ‘i’s have been more straight?
As someone who could be so easily distracted, Kotton’s concentration tapped out for the moment. It left any and all decision making to the most basic parts of his intelligence. Fortunately, that intelligence concurred with the decision that sleep was of most importance. So, with journal and pencil in hand, the young man deposited his limp body against the creased mattress that rested gently against supple bedsprings.
He would wake up a proud man for having stuck to his declaration of sobriety. Whoever this Ilaren immortal was would simply have to accept it.
Oh, how the young man’s heart ached. And his brain, man, was it as lit as a fire- a fire sparked from a negligent person who had forgotten their fireplace was ablaze, fiery smoulders of a family portrait desperately wishing to be dissolved into imperceivable ashes. Kotton wished he could turn his mind off with the flick of his hand. Kind of like how he silenced Worick that one day using sign language. It was actually sort of funny- he just had to look away and not hear and-
It didn’t help that there was an implicit bet placed upon the population. And Kotton was a betting man. He stayed away from gambling with the sole purpose of not wanting to become addicted, as his personality was unreasonable hardwired to. It also didn't help that had struck up a deal with the immortal of unluckiness or something. But this? There was a prick against the folds of his brain that itched like a poisonous insect bite. He wanted to scratch it with unfiled nails, to really dig into the flesh so that bruises manifested and declared the need for treatment. But no.
His journey with discipline had been progressing at an impressive pace. He had learned to ignore the facets of joy that came from the smell of the liquor that wafted from the taverns he passed after work. He had been practicing his decision to deny beverages imbued with heavy alcohol content. He had even directed his attention to that of misdirection and distraction, disregarding ale in the stead of a chamomile tea right before bed.
But this? This celebration, or whatever it was, suggested something far more enticing than staying consistent to a dry plan. He wanted to appease every immortal, whether he believed in their domains or not. He desired to be a name on everyone's radar, to create a title for himself so that he could be contemplated during a time in his life when it became necessary. Even if his understanding of Ilaren was rough, he did know some facts about her and they propagated his mind like a male flower casting out his seeds to a stigma.
Ilaren, Ilaren… he racked his brain for a description associated with such a lovely name. And there it was, stashed away in a wayside drawer of his mind. Only two words were prominent enough to amuse his memory and they were: sound and alcohol. Well the former made absolute nonsense to the nearly deaf man, but the latter was something he could easily vote for.
Still, he persisted, resisting the call of the liquor he had stashed at the very bottom of his ice box. His mind was torn in two. He wanted to accept the job and reign top performer in a challenge he had no right in participating in, but he also wanted to stick to the program he had designed for himself, for the betterment of who he was as an individual.
The clashing thoughts continued to wage a war inside his mind and they paid no mind to the priceless renovations he had constructed during the last time he had tried to find common ground circumspective of inner peace. The walls were thin as they were, but adding claws and... hammers? What was the effort in spending trials finding peace if you could just make some yourself? Also known as alcoho-
Kotton shook his head as hard as he could before inadvertently inflicting a headache onto himself. The last image his eyes landed on before they closed with the will to seek equilibrium was that of a blurb he had written. He had written this blurb in the attempt of inspiring some languid decision to advance.
With wavering hands, he took the page from its spot against the floor and brought it as close as he could to read it. ‘I’ve tried in the past, but never managed to write with a free hand. There are so many forms of expression out there, so many templates, so many passages created without constraints. I will create something like this. I just-’
And the lettering spontaneously became fuddled and illegible, with only the potential for and auspicious soul to devour and eject sense of the words. There was no delay in imagination. Kotton reached for the nearest pencil and proposed a piece straightaway, one that would wake even the most tired.
‘You always hear about those happy people
In the words written down on papyrus by
Delicate fingers and swift hand movements
To create the elegant swoop of of the ‘L’
The gentle dot over the ‘I’
The majestic curve of the ‘E’
But what you do not know if the truth
Behind those happy faces
Those faces that hide secrets
Those faces with odd smiles
And nonexistence crinkles near the eye
When you laugh at the jokes you hear
About the kid who cannot figure out
What she wants in life
It is these faces that tell a story unlike
The version crafted with dainty intricacy
By a master at deception
Her face
And her nose
And her eyes that shimmer in the glint in the morning sun
Her hair that rarely looks dishevelled
And her lips always red like the roses in the summer
Her everything remains in this veil of obscurity
But what lies deeper still
In the hollow caverns inside
Are much different from the exterior she so admirably portrays
You see, her personal life remains under cover
A thick layer of dirt keeps it safe like the grave she’s dug for herself keeps the coffin
But she does have friends
They are not friends like you nor I
They are not friends that can be seen
They are not friends that encourage or inspire with the positivity needed to progress
No, they are not friends at all really
They are figments of an imagination
An imagination darker than any nightmare you’ve had in the past five years
They are voices that whisper menacing requests
Voices that command absurd actions
These are the voices that tell her it is necessary to wear a mask to conceal the truth behind her dark eyes,
Marred flesh,
Visible bones
The smile may be fake, but her story is not
She really was taken advantage of by the one she thought most dear
She really did life her shirt and wriggle out of her pants to bend over
She really did let him take her like the wind takes all the seeds that fly from flowers during the spring
And she really did let him abuse her while she sat there and looked out the window at the sky whose tears matched her own
Her laugh may be feigned, but her story is not
She truly thought she looked strange in the image that looked back at her in the mirror
She truly wondered if she forgot about breakfast ,she would become more beautiful
She truly thought exercising three hours every day while running on two digit calories was going to appease the sinister tongue in her mind
And she truly thought everything was alright when her ribcage stuck though her flesh and her wrists were the circumference of quarters
Now, the skip in her step may be a sham, but her story is now
She genuinely felt like the tension when she pushed was the fall of dumbbells onto her shoulder based by life’s need to oppress those who thought differently
She genuinely felt like her veins were where the monster hid and screamed at her with obscenities and insults she could not handle
She genuinely felt that the metal shard she pressed against her skim would help release those demons that caused her so much mental pain
She genuinely believed that a little deeper wouldn’t hurt, and that she wouldn’t become addicted to the pain, that she could stop whenever she felt like it
Memories aside, this girl
This helpless girl
This sad and broken girl
This girl who has gone through so much…
Let’s just say, I’m still standing here aren’t I?
And that makes me one of the bravest people I know.”
Kotton’s pencil had met the wood, that’s how dull it had become during his journey through rhythmic and distracted time. The peace that enveloped him was surreal. It was only mimicked by sedative drugs or intensive insouciance, which meant that this latest encounter was undoubtedly one he would remember.
He fought to bring himself back to reality. He fluttered his eyelids until they could handle the light that illuminated his workspace. He bit his lip, picked at a dead piece of skin surrounding his nose and narrowed his eyes against the notches of graphite made in his journal. His eyes stung from staring, so he rubbed them with the back of his hand. There was nothing left of him energy-wise. So the only thing he was able to do was glance at his penmanship and wonder. Could those ‘c’s have been more curved? Could his ‘i’s have been more straight?
As someone who could be so easily distracted, Kotton’s concentration tapped out for the moment. It left any and all decision making to the most basic parts of his intelligence. Fortunately, that intelligence concurred with the decision that sleep was of most importance. So, with journal and pencil in hand, the young man deposited his limp body against the creased mattress that rested gently against supple bedsprings.
He would wake up a proud man for having stuck to his declaration of sobriety. Whoever this Ilaren immortal was would simply have to accept it.
Spoiler
Please do not steal this poem, as it is personal and sentimental to me. Thank you.
