#.memory fragments

[lunaetis]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞.

                a secret meant to be kept hidden. the voices that weren't supposed to be heard. the sounds hushed in tone and the noises muffled with each step they took. silence was common even when they were only the two of them. cattleya was no stranger to it, however. an auto-memory doll who often communicated through written words and letters was not unfamiliar with silence.

                but in that quiet air, she heard him ( @wesama ).

                in that silence, it was loud. the sounds of his footsteps as he walked next to her, the shuffle of his movement when dawn hadn't broken from the horizon just yet. when she first met him, he smelled of gunpower and blood, of battles and war clinging to his very form. no matter how many times she washed his hand, the red did not completely come off.

                now, he smelled of freshly baked bread and coffee. he smelled of soil and dirt as he helped her plant vegetables and flowers in the garden. he smelled of the faint floral scent of the flowers he picked out for her. the crimson tainted fingers were replaced by flour and oil of the breakfast he prepared for her.

                " william, " she would call him, despite knowing that probably was not his real name. how she yearned to know it, to know him, to know the man she had saved and the man she had come to — " good morning. "

                did you sleep well ?

                did you have a nightmare again ?

                do you miss your country ? your home ?

                the questions were swallowed down her throat when she looked at him. how shameful. a part of her wanted to ask that. a part of her wanted to know if there were anything she could help him with.

                if he was happy being here with her.

                do you want to leave ... and go back home ... ?

                as the footsteps retreated, the door of her room creaked open, barely making a noise. she could hear the silhouette of his back slowly disappearing into the shadow cast by the sunlight, as well as the muttering words that echoed. how she wished she could understand what he was saying.

                " william ... " that was not his name, but she had nothing else to call him by. fingers clutched gently against her chest, being able to hear the sound of her own heart thumping. calling for him. to hide him like this ... to keep him a secret ... a kind of life where he could not be discovered ...

                there was no way he would be truly happy.

                and she remembered his smile, the warmth of his hand upon her own, how his scarred digits would curl protectively around her smaller ones. a squeeze he'd give their connected hands as they walk. her heart fluttered when their eyes meet.

                william ... my william ...

                " i don't want you to leave ... " the words she wanted him to know, but never could bring herself to say. it's selfish. oh so selfish.

                can you hear me ? hear my heart beating for you ?

[flowerytale]

Joan Didion, from Blue Nights

[feral-ballad]

Jane Hirshfield, from The Beauty: Poems; “Entanglement”

[Text ID: “You are there. I am here. I remember.”]

[mournfulroses]

Yannis Ritsos, trans. by Kimon Friar, from a poem featured in "Erotica: Love Poems,"

[kaiserouo]

"Huh."

[llovelymoonn]

derek walcott the antilles: fragments of epic memory

kofi

[nights-at-crystarium]

a noodle and a future noodle eating noodles

[fhtagn-and-tentacles]

MEMORIES FRAGMENTED

Cover art by Erskine

[rainbow-neko-artblog]

*Posts about my Tord from a one off AU where he is a sleep paralysis demon that eats nightmares to survive.*

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

{Sarah Kane, Sarah Kane: Complete Plays: "Crave"/ Mahmoud Darwish/ Oliver Masters/ Mary Oliver, When Did It Happen?/ Ryan O' Connell/ Unknown/ Victoria Chang, "Dear D", Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief/ Unknown/ Frank Bidart, Half-Light: Collected Poems, "End of a Friendship"/ Marion, from the film Another Woman, written & directed by Woody Allen (Orion Pictures, 1988)/ Charles Baudelaire, Poems in Prose, "A Hemisphere in Your Hair"/ F. Scott Fitzgerald/ Mihail Sebastian, For Two Thousand Years/ Anne Carson, Glass, Irony and God/ Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore/ Donte Collins, "Grief, Again"/ Joyce Carol Oates, We Were Mulvaneys (Plume, 1997)/Pictures from Pinterest}

[namedvesta]

[“𝐼’𝑚 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢.”] ئەترسمبمرمونەتبینم

Carolyn Bessette and JFK Jr. in Paris, April 𝟣𝟫𝟫𝟨.

[lunaetis]

𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬.

                some say dreams were a piece of the past you longed for, some say they were the future that had yet to be realized, and some say dreams were realities ... the ones where things were both the same and different from the one you have right now. realities where your mind is connected to yourself and seeing what could've been.

                there were frequency overlapping with his ( @memovia ). the rover had made this conclusion after a few observations when his mind seemed to drift into slumber. when those striking hues disappeared behind the lids, and his consciousness slowly sank deeper into rest, there were noises she could hear when she approached him.

                yinyue couldn't make out what that frequency was, but it felt both familiar and foreign all at the same time.

                he was resting, and the air about him should've been QUIET and calm, however, his wave was fluctuating, it was as though he was completely awake — as though his FORTE was being activated and she could feel it ... the way the room temperature began to drop ... his dark brows furrowed and fingers curled into fists ... gripping, groaning ...

                " zayne ... — " she was by his side now, partially gloved digits taking hold of his hand and feeling the ICE starting to prick at her skin. a quiet wince but she wasn't letting go. her free hand came to his form, shaking him slightly to wake him from what she assumed was a nightmare. he was mumbling something, and the AIR started to cool.

                " zayne ... wake up ... zayne ...! " no matter how many times she called out his name, his eyes remained close. panic started to settle in, and the frost that ate into her palm became worse. further, deeper ... his body began to thrash about and she could hear his voice, breaking, shattered ... he sounded hopeless, he sounded as though his own heart was ripped from his chest and his fingers attempted to dig themselves right into his own palm. as though he wanted to draw his own blood, and her hand blocked it even if that meant the ICE was sinking its biting fangs right onto her skin.

                the frequency was getting louder, louder ... and she made out one word.

                kill —

                her arms came around him at that single word, heedless of the glacio power starting to manifest around them. her smaller limbs coiled around his frame, refusing to let go. it felt as though something was pulling him away, as though he was going to go somewhere she cannot follow. no ... anything but that.

                the thought of losing him was unbearable to her.

                " 黎深 ... 请回来... "

                a plead ...

                when those beautiful eyes finally reopened, yinyue ended up staring at him as though she was the one who woke up from a bad dream. she grasped his hand, placing a kiss to his palm before burying her face into his chest and exhaled shakily in relief. her digits that clutched at his back was trembling slightly. yinyue didn't know what happened, she didn't know what had kept his mind from returning but he was back ... he was back now ... it was only a dream ...

                " don't go anywhere i can't follow ... "

[muleumpyo]

someone will remember us i say even in another time If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho - trans. by Anne Carson

[feral-ballad]

Linda Pastan, from Waiting for My Life: Poems; "What We Want"

[Text ID: "and in the morning / our arms ache. / We don't remember the dream, / but the dream remembers us."]

[mournfulroses]

Anna Akhmatova, translated by Stanley Kunitz, from Poems of Akhmatova; "To The Londoners,"

[flamingphoenixfox]

Original Text Post By Captain-Lovelace