themordaxinsomnium

[themordaxinsomnium]

[themordaxinsomnium]

I believe people are defined more by their failures than by their achievements.

Each ascent to greatness makes lesser falls seem trivial by comparison, dulling our senses to anything short of a plunge from our highest peaks. In time, we grow numb to the smaller stumbles, as only the deepest descents have the power to truly shape who we are.

[themordaxinsomnium]

“‘You’re stressed and dehydrated; get some sleep.’ The words drift from his mouth like ash, weightless and hollow, and yet they sting like salt on a wound. It’s as though I’m standing in a crumbling cathedral, flames licking at the rafters, and someone whispers, ‘You’re warm; perhaps a cool bath would do.’ My world is scorched, doctor. My bones feel as though they’ve been ground to dust, my mind as worn as ancient stone. Every nerve is frayed, trembling under the weight of days that feel like centuries, yet you offer me nothing more than sleep, as if I am a child woken from a nightmare.

“I do not need you to tell me of stress—I am intimate with it, bound to it like a curse. I feel it in every breath, in every splintered hour of restless dreams. I have swallowed oceans, drank more than my share of life’s bitterness, yet the thirst remains. Dehydrated? Perhaps, but water alone will not slake what ails me. My body has become like crumbling clay, worn thin by the ceaseless chisel of worry, sculpted into something unrecognizable even to myself.

“I am asking you to see the burns etched into my spirit. To reach past these hollow words and touch the hidden wounds, to uncover the sickness that festers beneath this pale skin. If you cannot see the scars, doctor, then look harder. Search deeper. For I am scorched, yes, but not by sleep’s absence alone. There are fires here you cannot extinguish with mere platitudes, and I beg you—treat what lies beneath, or let me burn in peace.”

[themordaxinsomnium]

There is no flawless beauty. The concept of perfection- bred within flaw, it is under scrutinization- where one feels more than they see- no truer asseveration spoken than when privately observing all that could ever have been or will be . It is within ones intent to shape, mold or be molded, that beauty is born.

without carnal desire to fuel ones pursuit it would fall absent, suffocating in the absence of perception.

Created subjectively within segregation- to shift through ones one biased temperance. The concept of tragedy and the intent of art- and comparing it to ones own abstract biases of perfection

[themordaxinsomnium]

You speak to me of concepts I once thought fantasy—a never-ending stream of luxurious praise, encouragement, and approval. Not a moment passes that I do not feel the weight of your effort, the undeniable presence of your devotion. You seep into me, oozing a deep red passion, a searing white fire—cool to the touch yet burning all the same.

Your words cleanse me, sharp and startling, like mint gum chased by orange juice—an exquisite contradiction that lingers on the tongue. Even the endless expanse of an ocean pales beside the boundless depths I lose myself in with you. Hours dissolve into eternity, drawn into the labyrinth of your mind, your soul, your fire. You warm me, enveloping and engorging tumultuous thoughts, searing away the decay and leaving behind only jarring ivory affection.

[themordaxinsomnium]

She is red.

Red like the searing trails her fingertips leave in their wake. Red like the igniting flush that blooms across my face the instant our eyes meet. Red, so red. I wear it with pride —her mark, her taste, her gaze etched into my skin.

I’ve never liked color, shunned it with unmatched fervor. Yet now I scour the world for it—the potent burgundy, the enrapturing ruddy, the unrestrained scarlet. When it graces my tongue, I savor it greedily, indulge in its tart, cinnamon gluttony. It fills me, comforts me, stuffs me full until I verge on rupture. Her touch is my release, the antidote to the monotony of a monochromatic ache. In her presence, the muted tones of agony vanish, leaving only red—pure, unrelenting red.

I barely know you. And yet, how I long to study you, to worship and adore you as if you were the finest scripture my eyes have ever dared to fall upon.

[themordaxinsomnium]

Drink that which in me still bleeds, a frisson of felicity that ignites the moment your skin brushes mine. Ecstasy, rampant electricity; a proclivity for the way in which you eat me. A masochistic monotony. Victorious ivory venor- rending innocence from my vein. Sinking ever deep.

Two days without proper sleep.