#LurkingInnerNarrator writes

[lurkinginnernarrator]

tiny little miniscule snippet from my Shen twins demonic cultivator au

"Right as Liu Qingge was about to enquire, once again, if Shen Qingqiu actually knew where he was going, the man whirled around and with handsigns basically told Qi Qingqi and by proxy Liu Qingge to shut up."

[lurkinginnernarrator]

Check out my new fic! The first chapter just dropped and I'd love to share.

Description:

Catharsis

Catharsis: meaning "purification" or "cleansing". It is most commonly used today to refer to the purification and purgation of thoughts and emotions by way of expressing them. The desired result is an emotional state of renewal and restoration.

in other words, Wei Wuxian grows back into the world, one step at a time.

[lurkinginnernarrator]

Ive been hitting a block recently when it comes to the MDZS fic I've been writing. But I was outside and saw the clouds today and was inspired to jot some thoughts, so to speak.

So here's a little unedited piece of fancy

The Tragedy of The Raindrop

Does anyone ever consider the tragedy of the raindrop?

You are vaporous and ethereal, surrounded by a smattering of your kin,yet a migration of billions. The sun to warm you, the stars to light you, and the moon to dance with.

You start to love. The ones closest to you grow closer. You learn to dance with them. You rejoice in the twinkling stars and sacred light. Should you wish you could reach out, and be reached to in return. Stars whirling overhead and loved ones beside you.

Then all those ones around you become closer; it's suffocating. No longer do you dance with the moon or are lit by stars. The warmth of sol is foreign. You are crushed together with the ones you once loved, the ones you still love yet are damning you with their weight. You resent them yet hate yourself for it because you can see: All the others crowding in on those special ones of yours, they cannot help but burden you, their strength is failing as is.

But… they lean on you over and over and over and over… you are always so heavy. And you watch as they continue to weigh you down and your traitorous heart cries ‘why must you do this to us? Can't you be a little stronger? Can you not see the strain of our arms and the hunch of our back? Why do you hurt us? Please… I cannot carry your weight anymore…’ Yet you persevere.

You hold the weight of your own society on your shoulders, carrying it on your back, silent in your torment.

You live in that limbo for countless dusks. Merely drifting. You forget the feeling of the stars. The heat of the sun. Or how to dance with lune.

And you forget what it was like to be weightless, and what unrestrained joy felt like. You forget everything but what is.

Life is a white purgatory and you cannot remember the life you lived to be sent there.

And you fall.

For a moment your betrayer of a heart weeps in relief singing ‘finally, finally they cannot weigh me down anymore’.

The world is beautiful. You can see the sky once more. Brilliant celestial bodies greet you and you weep to see such precious gods again. For a moment you exist, a heathen finding God again, dear, lovely precious salvation.

Then you see the ground. You die to live, but when you live you die.

To die is pain, but to be forgotten agony. You find solace in the family still above you in the heavens, knowing they will remember you. Perhaps even regret what pain they caused you. Even not, they will still remember.

As you hit the earth, for a split moment you see the sky once more. You are destroyed, last thought one of detached horror.

Your family hurtles towards their death. All your pain in vain. Nothing of you will survive. They will not survive. You have already been forgotten.

Who would mourn for the rain?

[lurkinginnernarrator]

That feeling when you show someone irl your writing and they smile and say 'you could be a poet.' but then you say 'its not poetry it prose' but you know that even if they don't quite understand the nuances of writing terminology and methodology they enjoyed it. And that's all that really matters. It is not the critics that love a book but the reader. The audience.

Having someone you love enjoy and appreciate what you created, something you made of yourself, your time, and your hands: that is a lovely feeling.