#am also very tired bc i didn't sleep well FDSFD

[ouchiis]

epitaph  of  a  forgetful  occultist.   (  644  words  ,  3657  characters.  happy  birthday  ouye  ♡  )

· · ·  REALITY  was  but  a  mere  dream. · · ·  OVER  A  hundred  years  on  this  earth  ,  reality  grew  fluid  ,  like  a  jellyfish  wandering  aimlessly  in  the  sea  or  oil  dripping  gently  on  top  of  a  puddle.  time  failed  to  contain  its  coherent  linearity  ,  instead  becoming  a  string  of  memories  or  scenes  of  dreams  ,  sometimes  in  order  and  sometimes  not.  a  day’s  errands  became  indistinguishable  from  daydreaming.  he  couldn’t  tell  when  he  was  awake.  when  he  was  asleep.  when  he  was  in  some  sort  of  limbo  between  the  two.  such  were  the  ways  of  divine  punishment. · · ·  DAWN  WAS  a  cruel  mistress  ,  having  gently  lulled  OUYE  out  of  his  purgatorial  slumber  an  hour  before  he  typically  woke.  the  sun  gently  greeted  him  through  the  cracks  of  his  ebony  curtains  ,  though  he  welcomed  it  with  less  than  equal  friendliness  ,  using  his  pallid  hand  to  shield  himself  from  its  rays  (  the  kindness  he  used  to  greet  dawn  depended  on  if  he  had  stayed  to  watch  her  come  home  or  if  she  had  woken  him  herself  ).  were  it  not  for  the  birds  outside  his  window  reminding  him  to  water  his  plants  ,  the  occultist  would  have  laid  in  bed  ,  merely  rotting  yet  another  day  away.  the  world  lacked  an  incentive  to  be  productive  when  he  lacked  the  ability  to  die. · · ·  LEAVING  his  bed  nearly  forced  the  occultist  to  fall  to  the  ground  in  a  sudden  wave  of  nausea  and  dizziness.  barely  stepping  out  of  his  bed  the  day  before  caused  swift  repercussions  ,  with  his  dehydration  headache  providing  no  solace  to  his  misfortune.  his  clumsy  feet  pressed  against  the  cool  tiles  of  his  kitchen  floor  to  the  plush  carpet  of  his  living  room  as  he  turned  the  television  on  to  feel  a  little  less  lonely.  as  much  as  he  hated  to  admit  it  ,  he  wanted  someone  talking  to  him  ,  even  if  through  a  screen. · · ·  OUYE  DIVERTED  his  attention  towards  the  lush  herbs  and  flowers  in  the  corner  of  his  living  room  ,  propped  against  the  window  for  maximum  sunlight.  a  need  for  a  trim  to  make  sure  the  plants  stayed  healthy  ,  a  need  to  water  them  ,  a  need  to  check  for  any  signs  of  decay  or  rot  .  .  .  gardening  was  tedious  ,  yet  no  different  than  taking  care  of  a  child.  OUYE  placed  his  remote  against  the  coffee  table  to  work  on  his  plants  ,  but  his  ears  perked  up  hearing  the  television  host  speak  to  him. · · ·  ❛  GOOD  MORNING  .  .  .  TODAY  .  .  .  MARCH  14TH  .  .  .  WHITE  DAY.  ❜ · · ·  WHITE  day  .  .  .  was  it  that  time  of  year  already  ?  as  much  as  he  indulged  himself  in  yearnful  fantasies  of  romance  and  love  ,  his  solitude  prohibited  any  grand  gestures  directed  towards  him  ,  and  a  hundred  years  failed  to  bring  him  a  secret  admirer  to  wipe  him  off  his  feet.  OUYE  placed  himself  on  his  knees  with  a  pair  of  shears  ,  gently  trimming  the  ends  of  his  ivy  plant  once  he  saw  the  tips  of  it  turning  brown  .  .  . · · ·  .  .  . · · ·  .  .  .  WHITE  DAY.  MARCH  14TH.  the  date  was  fuzzy.  he  placed  the  shears  down  ,  furrowing  his  eyebrows. · · ·  .  .  .  THAT  WAS  HIS  BIRTHDAY. · · ·  THE  REALISATION  came  embarrassingly  late  as  he  spun  his  head  towards  the  screen  again.  it  was  his  birthday  ?  had  it  been  another  year  already  ?  surely  it  was  only  a  few  months  ago  ?  trying  to  count  the  years  on  his  finger  were  ,  of  course  ,  fruitless.  what  year  was  it  again  .  .  .  ?  this  would  mark  a  hundred  nineteen—  no  ,  a  hundred  twenty  -  one—  years  on  this  earth.  one  hundred  twenty  -  one  painstaking  years  on  this  earth  with  little  explanation  to  his  circumstances  and  little  justification  for  the  wrongdoings  that  targeted  him.

· · ·  HE  PRIED  himself  away  from  the  plants  ,  standing  up  and  brushing  the  imaginary  dust  off  his  knees  ,  now  red  and  carpet  -  burned  from  resting  on  them.  he  sighed  sorrowfully  at  the  plants  ,  making  a  mental  note  to  take  care  of  them  later  before  he  headed  back  to  the  kitchen  to  fix  himself  a  glass  of  whiskey. cheers to another year of loneliness. perhaps he'd pity bake himself a cake.