#the darkest dark is fluid and malleable in nature

[krispdreemurr]

in my head like, dark is the raw stuff of narrative and imagination, the loose clusters of ideas and thoughts - dreams, etc - while light is the rules and the structure that holds it all together into something coherent with goals and a narrative arc (hopes etc). dark fountains basically draw out raw dreams and anchor them to the solidity of light. this also means that as we go deeper/whenever there's fountains in fountains things will get progressively more surreal

[sasorikigai]

Send me five times + (action) and I will write a drabble of our muses || @sonxflight​ || selectively accepting 

(i). It’s the twist of apprehension and dread that comes when faced with the prospect of an empty celestial skies; with no warm body awaiting him with a welcoming grin, arms outstretched to welcome him in just glacial expanse of atmosphere and colder metal vices. The promise of demons continue to breathe to life, given blood and breath and bone just to be set free to their own devices. How the fallen Seraph’s breath catches in his constricted throat, pulse screaming in his brain. Feet desperate for the invisible, intangible floor to free him of his restraints as if there is somewhere to run or hide or escape when the air grows thin and rattles through him like wheezing air. Hanzo Hasashi’s eyes remain wide and searching in the dark, hair raised upon his nape and length of his back. “I keep seeing the invading realm of dreams, keep messing up my memories. Even as I remain sedated under Hypno’s lull, I see too much injustice and machinations of darkness stampeding over the forces of good. The Almighty God, our Father is far from being a merciful and compassionate God.” Ryou simply nods and points to his back. The scars have never been smoothed out, for the celestial plumages had been unearthed without care. “I am no longer smitten with the Golden Sun of God’s facade. For I have had rivers bleed out of dead veins that don’t even feel the cuts anymore.” 

(ii). His fragile heart had been sobbing silently, quivering, yet never timid to make a sound that would betray its existence and expose it to a voice that has brought him nothing, but hurt. This voice of God, stern and harsh, vicious and cruel at times when it’s challenged. His mind and his heart have been in an ongoing struggle for dominance for so long that he barely recognizes himself as the Almighty’s most beloved. He’s stuck in an impasse, torn, both the sobbing child and intimidating alpha male. He’s charred and defaced by his own fury, his madness, his destruction, as how he continues to crave destruction to find peace in emptiness. “I want to hold it all together, even when I remain stitched sloppily along the seams; I want my painful memories back. I do not want to tiptoe behind the maybes, lest I plunge right into the delirious madness.” Ryou reassures and comforts. “You do not have to walk along the tightrope; for you will fall or you will burn. Peer into the madness to find your rose-colored glasses once again.” 

(iii). How incinerating Hanzo’s fury rages on, against his own heart to move on, when at the same time, he knows it cannot betray its nature. And throughout the silence of eons of stagnancy and sinking quagmire of his mood, he had dreamed of Harumi in the haze of fading light. The image of her smile, the sound of her laughter, the pulsating ambiance of the shared memories, still-bound and taut beneath the cracked spine of his archive. Memories that remain sacred, untainted despite the ongoing onslaught of wrath, bitterness and loss. Harumi is still his angel, the light in the eternal darkness of his soul. Despite the darkness spreading like virus infecting space with shadow, Ryou’s illuminating starlight of embrace basks the darkened well of Hanzo’s heart. He does not have to be confined, smothered in the solitary citadels of his psyche, which erodes all colors and lessens his luster. 

(iv). He’s an embodiment of a rough and coarse canvas, stretched over taut with the underpainting. He’s always the one layer beneath the final result, the final image on the surface, because what’s under such a masterpiece tells more tumultuousness, more stories and struggles than the finished picture above. raw and visceral, the brush strokes remain the quintessential embodiment of his fundamental nature. More fluid with strength - for he possesses great potential and he’s always flexible. The once-Seraph might bend and stretch, become amorphous and malleable, but he’d never break and shatter. Even when he does, his form could turn like unkilned clay, still shapeable beneath the virtuoso sculptor. Yet, his memories are set in stone; fixated in peace, deeply rooted as the life beyond the trunk lays barren and withered. He must treat himself with care, yet such task proves difficult when he’s hugging onto the hardened tombstone, chipped away and corroded away with passing time. He laments as this touch of indefinite resistance to language that pain incurs, whether in his ascension and descension. 

(v). Hanzo often wonders if he’s doomed. Obviously, the God Almighty controlling his karmic fate had indeed condemned him and he could become the devil in those cruel moments and bask beneath illuminations if the moment presented itself, yet he had too much heart in a world that doesn’t value nor desire it. Yes, he holds enough scar tissues, etched scratches through the accumulated time and stories of a delinquent and a vagabond, yet Ryou had been not on the path that was chosen without his input. How that consequential event would turn his entire being around - for paradoxically, the Seraph without his wings would be his sun. And his entire being breathed the fundamental wildfire within him. For his heart is ablaze and he’s imbued with such eloquence. And he’s the darkest shades of the moon, a dreamcatcher upon the tumultuous and eerie air of the midnight blue. He’s burned by love, love like the race that entitles an unknown forbidden trek of time. Through inevitability, his heart continues to be broken - fractured, unwhole and left in pieces.