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[voiures]

Le monstre.

The recital: 2023, December, 30th.

Everything is too loud. He once believed ballet dancers are loved because they are silent. There is no personality there, save for delicate, perfect emotion conveyed with smiles and glitter at the corner of the eyes and the ever-so-soft tap of wood blocks en pointé. To be silent was its greatest miracle. Humans aren’t designed to flit as soft as butterflies without making a sound. It’s what makes ballet dancers inhuman in ways others can only sigh wistfully at. But now he feels like he’s too loud. All he knows is when he looks into those pair of eyes that are watching him, his brain aches with gaps in his memory that shouldn’t be there. Unspoken things, actions that may or may not have happened. Jimin’s body has been abused so much by his own attacks, that it’s stopped trying. It trails along after the much quicker synapse of his mind. He’s in good shape now, but there’s always a cost. Addiction is a slippery slope and he falls fast. All it takes is one look, a shift of mood, the twirl of a ballet dancer’s foot en pointé. And all the way through, the stage is touched by green.

Jimin has the prima ballerina in his arms, the spotlight shining on them. They look like angels breaking through the clouds with heaven’s light wrapped around their heads like haloes. He doesn’t know how long they dance.

The troupe takes its final bow, and the primo dancers step ahead of the others for their own bow. Jimin takes the woman’s hand and parades her as she flutters on en pointé along with her partner and dips into a swan-like curtsy. He, on the other hand, gives a bow seething with masculinity, which is much approved by the general audience. The cheers get louder as the curtain drops, ending the performance, a slight smile, a twitch of his lips that doesn’t reach the arctic cold of his eyes. In the end, all he can think of is how rich people have weird obsessions.

2023, February.

There’s a large tiffany-blue coloured box sitting on one of the pillows. Jimin assumes this is the one item he received as a gift for his exquisite performance. Sitting beautifully in mounds of blue tissue paper, are a pair of silk blue ballet slippers. Silver embroidery runs down their sides like filigree, with diamonds sewn into each point. They look real, or at least realer than any decorative gem Jimin’s ever seen on one of his costumes. The ribbons are long and luscious and so soft, he gets tingles up his spine when he runs them through his fingers. They fit him like a second skin, and it feels as natural as breathing. Up he gets, twirling in the mirrors, doing a glissade across the floor as if he’s in the practice room. Every carefully brushed hair strand now loses its position and flies around his head with him. He does turns around the room – pirouette, soubresaut, pirouette, soubresaut – until the beauty of the ballet slippers imbue him with a fulfilment, one he rarely feels.

There are several lines racing through Jimin’s head, and none seem to satisfy his concerns, head swarming with unanswered questions, rapidly flowing with destructive thoughts that randomly spring up. They possess Jimin and as if to hammer the point in, a small card catches his attention, tucked near the gift box, says "de la part de votre père,"

There’s something to be said for monsters that don’t change. They’re more reliable. You know what you’ll get, except monsters are made, not born, and in slips of conversation.

He cuts pieces off himself like it’s nothing, as if he feels no pain in doing so. Jimin lets himself be cannibalized by the world so that it will accept him and love him because his father won’t, and never will. The cliches go hard for a reason, and back to the monster waiting for him.

[voiures]

"You should have seen it coming." ㅡ @voiures

@voiures + this thing

A camera and a gun were nearly two-like things. The barrel likened to a sprawling lens, the bullets held captive and cozy within the magazine basically equivalent to a roll of film anyone could purchase from the filmlog machine erect around the corner. In this way they would’ve been entirely identical, only if it weren’t for their bittersweet almost; because as alike as they were, so keen to take something from the world, the purpose of which they could be wielded were entirely reigned polarities of one another. 

Midway through the recital, sitting amidst a plethora of straight-backed bodies dressed taut and proper for the show, Taeil wondered what it would’ve been like if it were a gun he were aiming at Jimin instead, rather than his digital film camera—loaded full with bullets that can’t hurt; about thirty-six exposures on a 35mm roll. He held his weapon and wondered if these people knew what it were like to strip one bare of his sound and soul without the assistance of a single bullet.

If Jimin only knew what he would do.

But none had paid him heed, not while Jimin, ethereal as divine revelation yet precise as a hot-red blade, swept the stage on nimble toes and in his wake, their breaths. The performance began to unravel and Taeil pointed his lens in earnest wherever he could see the dancer’s shimmering soul, welcomed in exposure and translated language of a succinct heart into precisely seventy exposures. Before the grand jeté’s ceased entirely and the curtains felled in silence, red as blood, Taeil had a story of scarlet to tell. Jimin disappeared backstage before he could empty his last two rounds, and after another moment of good measure, the entire theatre hall collectively drew in the very first, reinvigorating breath after what had felt like a lifetime of enchantment. No one moved, as if none could dare part so soon with whatever they’d just seen. Taeil drew his gaze back to his camera and emptied the last two monochrome shots between his feet.

It’s not congratulatory flowers and treats that he carries with him some days later, passing the hyung’s threshold like a phantom seeking a host; greeting the tasteful art on the walls, flicking at shiny medals and trophies neatly kept on display shelves. Jimin had asked for something worth keeping, a one thing that couldn’t ever slip from or pass in his grasp, or melt on his tongue. So Taeil had brought him his soul in seventy parts, tucked safely between two hundred and eight pages worth of an epistolary novel, as one would flower petals for preserving. 

Taeil presses the cold hardcover over the crest of Jimin’s forehead. On his face there’s a smile that tells mischief as it reaches endlessly towards the sharp, winged corners of his eyes. He jests, seeking quarrel. “Here’s your gift, my Lord. Like it? You can’t open or read it now though–”

Jimin swiftly swats him back, not without salvaging the book first. His small, deft palms skim across the cover and Taeil can see it clearly in the way he draws his eyebrows that he’s curious to nose his way towards the margins without his help. Under the bright cascade of his living room lights, Jimin looked nothing like someone who’d been shot seventy times.

Then Jimin does the perfectly expected and points up his chin at Taeil, tone a soft brushstroke against listening ears as he insists, “I like it. Now I command you to read it to me.”

“What? Right now?” Taeil blurts out, tone jumping an octave. Those eyes of brown, crystalline beauty beckon his disbelief, which arrests any trace of smugness remaining across Taeil’s refined profile and rips it off at once. 

He watches Jimin side-step around him and understands then, only after the other man rests on the arm of his sofa, that he should’ve expected this.

“Oh so we talked about it for nothing?” Jimin offers a humourless smirk, but shrugs as if conveying disappointment with Taeil’s idiocy. “You should have seen it coming.”

And Taeil blindly takes the bait in stride, but in his head he labels it as a mere challenge to test his ability to apply his word. He almost instantly clamours into the seat with a boyish huff, bun coming slightly loose during the impact of his plopping. He snatches the book back, cracking it open to the fresh first chapter. 

“Fine. But only the first chapter, not because you’re making me but because I want to be the first to show you how to read this.”

“Whatever you say, loser.”

Taeil clears his throat and begins to read. But the chapter comes and passes his throat so rapidly that it ends almost jarringly, with an abrupt slash of cruel red underlines. Designed to intrigue, much like the felled curtains in the theatre hall. This letter was only meant to be read once, then destroyed. In the moments before the world comes apart, she reads it again. 

The very first piece of Jimin’s soul slips into the dancer’s lap as Taeil finally gives way to silence. It flutters and flails as it tumbles through gravity, like delicate little butterfly wings, until Jimin in a perfect développé lands flush by bruised up knees that still recall those movements as their prayer.

[voiures]

HOW DOES YOUR MUSE CARRY EMOTION? BOLD what applies to your character.

𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒: being unable to stop smiling. laughter. bear hugs. happy tears. waving arms around. dancing. contently sighing. eyes twinkling. laughter lines. childlike playfulness. skipping. talking more. affection. cracking more jokes than usual. gesturing more when talking. higher pitched voice. squealing. jumping around. clapping.

𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒: tearing up. self-hugging. one-arm cross. an aching chest. scratchy throat. a runny nose. turning away. deep breaths. quivery smiles. crying. infantile sobbing. hands gripping each other or an object. covering mouth. puffy eyes. eyes appear red. voice breaking. a distant or empty stare. monotone voice. asking for comfort. faking a smile. crumbling. shaking. whimpering. depression. abusing an unhealthy habit. withdrawing from others. big teary eyes. doing something even if it could hurt them.

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑: furrowed brows. baring teeth. passive-aggressive comments. avoiding eye contact. sarcasm. headache. sore muscles. hiding clenched fists. irritability. jumping to conclusions. raising voice. going silent.demanding immediate action. keeping it all in until exploding. body tensing. making risky decisions.middle finger.

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑: wanting to flee or hide. what-ifs. images of what-could-be flashing in mind. uncontrollable trembling. rapid breathing. screaming. a skewed sense of time. irritability. keeping silent. denying fear.turning away from the cause. pretending to be brave. nail-biting. lip-biting. scratching skin. a joking tone but a voice that cracks. fainting. insomnia. panic attacks. exhaustion. substance abuse. tics. rushing adrenaline. face draining of color. hair lifting on the back of the neck. feeling rooted to the spot. making body as small as possible. staring but not seeing. crying. a shrill voice. whispering. gripping something or someone. stuttering. flinching at noises. pleading.

𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: constantly yawning. blurring words together. dark circles or lines under eyes. mood swings. hallucinations. calling people by the wrong name. dizziness. denying they’re tired. slow blinking. trouble concentrating. stumbling. leaning on a doorframe for support. sluggish movements. falling asleep someplace that isn’t a bed.becoming irritated by the smallest things.“i’m awake, i’m fine.” shaking so bad they spill their drink. falling asleep in their clothes. laying their head on the table because they’re so tired. passing out.

[voiures]

I WILL BE THE KNIFE THIS TIME.

prayer for the newly damned, ocean vuong / unknown / mercy, yves olade / cut, caitlyn siehl

[voiures]

Block.

‘TOL AND SMOL’ PROMPTS

[ BLOCK ] for the taller muse to stand in front of the shorter ones to prevent them from having to see something.

It wasn't intentional at first, Cash didn't see the top of Jimin's head as he moved to stand in front of him, seeing the fireworks in the sky better, a hot summer night, it's cliche but it's fun - embracing the whole summer, sand, ice cream, and fireworks. Having fun. A novel concept in Cash's world as of late, he was ready to get out of his funk. Cash stands with his phone out, recording the fireworks show for Ken later when he feels a rather hard jab in the middle of his back, and glances over his shoulder and down, seeing Jimin's expectant face. The request was plain in his face.

Move out of the way, asshole.

"Am I in your way, hyung?" He yells over the sound of the fireworks with a condescending grin, Jimin is only older than Cash by a couple days but he was in a mood, he takes a step back, heel landing on top of Jimin's toes and there's a shove at the small of Cash's back, "you're blocking my view, Cashie," Jimin says and Cash dies inside. Touche. Jimin can play dirty as well, and Cash shrugs, he can't win them all, stepping to the side so he can see better. "Want me to put you on my shoulders, shorty?"

@voiures

[voiures]

February, 2021. Paris, Seine River.

Jimin doesn’t know all the names of the bridges he uses to cross it. He doesn’t care to. The river is what concerns him, it’s different than the Han.

He’s surprised to learn rivers have their own personalities depending on the cities they’re snaking through. The Han is a quiet miracle, eternally sparkling, rushing to the mysterious edges of Seoul, going past places city dwellers aren’t concerned with. Jimin thinks the Seine is deadly, it frightens him because of its quiet. He’s never seen a river flow with such placidity. It’s almost as if it’s calling to him.

Just for a while, a few minutes of respite you’ll never get anywhere else.

He’ll take the plunge and the Seine won’t let go. There’s no traffic on this bridge – it’s made for pedestrians. A bench behind him sits empty. The last couple who walked by are already several feet away from the end of the bridge. It’s almost midnight on a Sunday. It’s quiet. He’ll be fine. No one will stop him.

July, 2021. Busan, home.

“You look perfect,” moving his eyes to the person talking behind him, Jimin catches her stare in their reflection. Jimin opts for silence, caressing his silky jacket with shaky fingers to get rid of nonexistent wrinkles.

He hears his mother approach him after the soft click of a closed-door echo in the silent room and stiffens his posture. His mother had been ignoring him for two weeks now, so her sudden approach just gives him a sense of uneasiness he never felt around her.

“The ocean. It's the ocean's way of crying when it laps over the shore.”  He sees hurt cross her eyes as his heart stutters painfully in his chest at the sight. Jimin could see the anxiety in his mother’s eyes, the pain those words causes her and he wants so badly to retreat them but at the same time, Jimin rationalized, that he had the right to put into words his thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” she says with a shaky voice, cupping his face with her slim hand, feeling both the warmth of his mother’s heart and the sadness of her touch. “I wish I could have done something for you, trust me when I say I tried.”

[voiures]

"You need to make an inventory of your fears, don’t let your trauma lead you to situations that allow it to replicate itself." Mrs. Jung has been trying to reach out to me since our last session; it has been a little bit more than a month now. I briefly recall her telling me to write outside our sessions, but even then when I approach the page, nothing happens, as if my feelings are nothing but a foreign language I don’t speak of, and not willing to learn, but in all honesty, I don’t want to tell her the destructive thoughts I have been having; after all, there’s no rest for the wicked. I refuse to call this journaling, it’s simply a moment of big word vomit for me. A moment of word vomit with no direction of sense behind my words, but maybe I’m just terrified to put a heavier meaning behind my research of comfort. I’ve been having the urge to fall back into my old habits, like a newborn baby searching for his mother’s warmth and safety, my hands can’t seem to stop itching to reach out for more. For exactly what, I don’t know, call it the despair, the destruction for a new renovation. I just want to get my hands on a vessel and crack it open to see what it is made of, what makes it different than me, that no one can seem to crack mine open and take my vulnerability out for a mere friction of communication. I’m not lonely, per se, but rather looking for a new place to sink my teeth in.

For people who overthink, insomnia is surely the worst thing ever to have, because at the end of the day, when the night falls upon your shoulders, trying to figure your thoughts out and doing them justice is the hardest thing one could ever do. Maybe, vulnerability is the first measure of everything.

[voiures]

Paul Tran, from All the Flowers Kneeling; "Scheherazade/Scheherazade"

[Text ID: —what humiliated me // as I relived my death in that room without sunrise / wasn't my desire for light but my desire for more darkness.]

[voiures]

“Le cygne noir prend son envol.”

When a person walks into a room, measure the silence that falls, they say. A minute quiet, to observe, mock and judge or an intake of breath and anticipation. When Jimin walks into a room, a different kind of silence falls.

That moment before a rollercoaster drops.

The backstage area in the Seoul Arts Centre is alive with the sound of ballerinas rushing around like rabid peacocks. The illusion of grace is that, an illusion. Jimin is a blur, like a cartoon on steroids, racing from one wall to the other, high on the caffeine, it’s unbelievable that during the rehearsals and performances, he even has grace. Tonight’s rehearsal is a variant of Swan Lake acted out in an item of shiny clothing. Jimin is the swan king and as such, he has form-fitting violet trousers with a silver stripe running down the side. He is quite not sure how he feels about it, his hair is coiffed up and swept back, frozen with tons of hairspray and glitter, matching tones sprinkled across his freckles.

He looks exquisite.

He’s exquisite. The deranged expressions are bringing out a beauty in Jimin that doesn’t exist outside of this room. It doesn’t exist outside of the crystalline white powder still dusted around his nostrils. There’s a steady flush rising over his neck, cheeks, and nose, his eyes are misty with sunlight, they sparkle like diamonds. He looks like he’s been ravaged, violated in his deepest parts. He looks helpless.

He doesn’t know why he enjoys that expression on himself. “Don’t try to fucking fool yourself, you know what would she say about your sick thoughts.” He pirouettes on the spot and in the space of that single movement, has his shirt up and over his head. He keeps it in his hand, using it as a prop. It twirls like a gymnastic ribbon as he leaps into a grand jeté. “What would they do if they knew about your background?” The dance turns into an allegro, making use of the entire floor space. He throws away the shirt as his movements slow down, running a hand over his thighs, before arching himself into a starting position for a promenade an arabesque. “Call the police, tell them the truth of your mother’s death.”  He turns on the spot, single foot shifting him in increments as if the floor is turning him instead. In the mirror, he is a perfect ballet dancer in a music box.

It does feel like he’s a glass figurine on a display case, waiting to be admired and bought home. But he knows better than that. He’s terrified. He’s terrified of fucking it up. He’s not terrified of fucking up the performance, he’s terrified of fucking himself up. There’s a flaw in his logic, in the way he thinks. He knows he’s avoiding the truth because he’s afraid that it will destroy his illusion. His illusion is, the way he thinks he’s gotten better, better at hiding things, better at concealing his invisible bruises. He badly wants to believe he has gotten better, but he knows the truth because a wound to the heart is also a wound to the mind.