~~the beautiful and the wicked.
Dec. 6th, 2002 11:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
reenkaer. so now it's officially winter.
you know, the time of year where i get depressed along with all the other sensitive souls, and wish i could just go to sleep and wake up when spring comes along. the time of year when beauty seems in short supply and my energy runs dry and i can't get myself to do absolutely -anything-.
i don't know why i'm bringing this up. this seems almost journally and not related to harry potter and um. i'm not a journaller. it's like not being an english major. i'm not one of "them". it leaves me with my small shred of pride that i decided to invest in it.
i wouldn't normally let myself start on beauty and sadness and endings and winter. i usually just write poetry and stories if i feel i need to express something-- i mean-- what's the point of just -writing-? what is just -writing-? if i started, and it really -clicked-, i think i'd want to make it something. i mean, if i'm really buzzing and something's really -getting- to me, it's art, just like that, it seems. but there was this and this and while they were writing about the bleaching of beauty, it was so beautiful... and i wish it helped to say, but you, you are the beauty in the midst of winter, but i know it doesn't, really....we are all beautiful even if we're dying.
will i start seeing you get sadder and sadder with every week? i don't go outside, i don't even need to see the snow, i can -feel- it, my bones feel thinner, the light doesn't seem to penetrate, and i -know-. this is the time of year where everything is wearing and nothing is bursting.
but even though there's no helping for it, and it's going to happen no matter what, it's just-- not true. so many-- so many words-- so many hearts and spirits burning-- burning into me. so beautiful. i mean, i don't need to name you, you know who you are, don't you? don't you?
it doesn't help. i mean-- i can feel it, always-- i don't ever say, i can't feel the beauty-- especially in winter. especially when it's harder to touch, especially when it's dying, it's more sharp to me. like minor chords, like a memory of rain and darkness and streetlights flickering, and hope. if it flickers, and you run towards it, and you can never quite touch it-- you're always doing that-- you're always walking and walking and never reaching-- shadows dancing beside you, but never touching. well-- but that is also beauty.
you're still sad, and it still hurts, but that is poetry-- it hurts, and it eludes you, and you wake up crying because beauty doesn't mean happiness, it just means-- well-- it's just what's keeping you alive. as long as the words and the images and the lights are flickering out of reach, that candle's burning.
have any of you read that fairy-tale?
with the three candles in the well, and the deal with the devil? life like a candle, and the choices we make-- flickering, flickering. all that's left of that fairy tale now are images, emotions. i couldn't retell it to you. i've read so many. my mind is bursting with them-- i have to write them down. *sigh* again.
~~
disclaimer: may or may not be fanfic ^_^
dedication: to penguin & amalin. be warm.
--winter's heart.
There is a story, and it's a winter's story. You can't retell it during the summer evenings, and you can't retell it anywhere but by a roaring fire, sitting cozily with the one you love, safe and sound and lulled by the warm drink between your palms, their hand upon your thigh, the thick woolen socks snug upon your feet. There are shadows of magic everywhere during the dark, cold months, hiding yet peeking out, like mischievous spirits.
Dancing and dancing in the clearing in the woods, laughing their wicked laughs, the little people are, this time of year. This is the time of the wicked faeries, of the tolling of bells, of the collecting on promises forgotten. We had been dancing in the summer, forgetting about the price, always the price.
Shhh, the wind is blowing outside. Shhhh, the winter's closing in. All around us, snow and snow and more snow, circling us, putting us to rest. Restless spirits wandering the cold, endless night, crying and searching, searching for the one true light that won't flicker out. Searching for that warm fire, for that hut in the middle of the dark, fearsome Wood, as we sit within our thick, warm walls, as we shiver and tell stories to ourselves.
~~
Once upon a time, there was a boy. He loved another boy so much his heart could've burst in his chest, his heart was a roaring fire. He held his heart in his hand, bleeding, and he proffered it to the other boy, the pale one, the thin and shivering one.
"Here," he said. "This might warm you up."
"I can't," the ragged boy whispered, hoarse and coughing and wavering on his feet. "I can't take it, because you'll want it back, because it will freeze in the cold, because the moon will steal it and the birds will peck it to pieces."
And the other boy smiled and shook his head. "No, no, take it, put it inside you, it'll warm you up. I don't need it, really, but it might help for awhile, and you can keep looking, keep searching for whatever it is you're searching for."
The pale boy looked at him, his eyes dry and his hands shaking as they closed around the thickly-beating heart, making a fist; the heart's blood started pouring down his skinny forearm. "But what will -you- do, won't you be cold, won't you be empty?"
"I will watch you," the other said. "I will be there, with you, watching you, seeing you walk out the forest, seeing you through the snow, seeing you fight the branches off your face. I'll be watching, from within you."
So the frail boy nodded, and swallowed the heart, which was still warm and tasted of iron, tears and summer nights, and it filled him up. "You are good," he said, finally.
"No," said the boy, who wasn't fading nearly slowly enough. "I am what you make me."
"Then you are wicked," said the pale-skinned boy, and started making his way again through the rising snow.
~~
um.
see what i mean? um. can't talk about this without lapsing into lala-land ^^;;
in other news.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vanityfair wrote `atrophy', which i can't even -describe-, except to say it really shouldn't have melted me and made me dissolve into little gooey weepy pieces, but it did. it's just-- so funny and perverse and touching and hot, and beautiful and unique and so aja. gah. *adores*
also, i wrote a Trilogy slash manifesto for `armchair'. *laughs* as if i needed to.
EDIT: it's official. i'm being weepy for like, no. good. reason. this guy named moroboshi listed me as a favorite author-- and has `the truth about demons' as a favorite story on ff.net. ok, this may seem stupid-- but that's not a fanfic..! that's my lucifer/adam slash, and like i've never gotten any feedback on it~! like, zero. *cries* and... and... and.... someone liked it...! mmmph. no, scratch that. someone READ IT...!..!
...and i'm not even pms'ing ><;;
you know, the time of year where i get depressed along with all the other sensitive souls, and wish i could just go to sleep and wake up when spring comes along. the time of year when beauty seems in short supply and my energy runs dry and i can't get myself to do absolutely -anything-.
i don't know why i'm bringing this up. this seems almost journally and not related to harry potter and um. i'm not a journaller. it's like not being an english major. i'm not one of "them". it leaves me with my small shred of pride that i decided to invest in it.
i wouldn't normally let myself start on beauty and sadness and endings and winter. i usually just write poetry and stories if i feel i need to express something-- i mean-- what's the point of just -writing-? what is just -writing-? if i started, and it really -clicked-, i think i'd want to make it something. i mean, if i'm really buzzing and something's really -getting- to me, it's art, just like that, it seems. but there was this and this and while they were writing about the bleaching of beauty, it was so beautiful... and i wish it helped to say, but you, you are the beauty in the midst of winter, but i know it doesn't, really....we are all beautiful even if we're dying.
will i start seeing you get sadder and sadder with every week? i don't go outside, i don't even need to see the snow, i can -feel- it, my bones feel thinner, the light doesn't seem to penetrate, and i -know-. this is the time of year where everything is wearing and nothing is bursting.
but even though there's no helping for it, and it's going to happen no matter what, it's just-- not true. so many-- so many words-- so many hearts and spirits burning-- burning into me. so beautiful. i mean, i don't need to name you, you know who you are, don't you? don't you?
it doesn't help. i mean-- i can feel it, always-- i don't ever say, i can't feel the beauty-- especially in winter. especially when it's harder to touch, especially when it's dying, it's more sharp to me. like minor chords, like a memory of rain and darkness and streetlights flickering, and hope. if it flickers, and you run towards it, and you can never quite touch it-- you're always doing that-- you're always walking and walking and never reaching-- shadows dancing beside you, but never touching. well-- but that is also beauty.
you're still sad, and it still hurts, but that is poetry-- it hurts, and it eludes you, and you wake up crying because beauty doesn't mean happiness, it just means-- well-- it's just what's keeping you alive. as long as the words and the images and the lights are flickering out of reach, that candle's burning.
have any of you read that fairy-tale?
with the three candles in the well, and the deal with the devil? life like a candle, and the choices we make-- flickering, flickering. all that's left of that fairy tale now are images, emotions. i couldn't retell it to you. i've read so many. my mind is bursting with them-- i have to write them down. *sigh* again.
~~
disclaimer: may or may not be fanfic ^_^
dedication: to penguin & amalin. be warm.
--winter's heart.
There is a story, and it's a winter's story. You can't retell it during the summer evenings, and you can't retell it anywhere but by a roaring fire, sitting cozily with the one you love, safe and sound and lulled by the warm drink between your palms, their hand upon your thigh, the thick woolen socks snug upon your feet. There are shadows of magic everywhere during the dark, cold months, hiding yet peeking out, like mischievous spirits.
Dancing and dancing in the clearing in the woods, laughing their wicked laughs, the little people are, this time of year. This is the time of the wicked faeries, of the tolling of bells, of the collecting on promises forgotten. We had been dancing in the summer, forgetting about the price, always the price.
Shhh, the wind is blowing outside. Shhhh, the winter's closing in. All around us, snow and snow and more snow, circling us, putting us to rest. Restless spirits wandering the cold, endless night, crying and searching, searching for the one true light that won't flicker out. Searching for that warm fire, for that hut in the middle of the dark, fearsome Wood, as we sit within our thick, warm walls, as we shiver and tell stories to ourselves.
~~
Once upon a time, there was a boy. He loved another boy so much his heart could've burst in his chest, his heart was a roaring fire. He held his heart in his hand, bleeding, and he proffered it to the other boy, the pale one, the thin and shivering one.
"Here," he said. "This might warm you up."
"I can't," the ragged boy whispered, hoarse and coughing and wavering on his feet. "I can't take it, because you'll want it back, because it will freeze in the cold, because the moon will steal it and the birds will peck it to pieces."
And the other boy smiled and shook his head. "No, no, take it, put it inside you, it'll warm you up. I don't need it, really, but it might help for awhile, and you can keep looking, keep searching for whatever it is you're searching for."
The pale boy looked at him, his eyes dry and his hands shaking as they closed around the thickly-beating heart, making a fist; the heart's blood started pouring down his skinny forearm. "But what will -you- do, won't you be cold, won't you be empty?"
"I will watch you," the other said. "I will be there, with you, watching you, seeing you walk out the forest, seeing you through the snow, seeing you fight the branches off your face. I'll be watching, from within you."
So the frail boy nodded, and swallowed the heart, which was still warm and tasted of iron, tears and summer nights, and it filled him up. "You are good," he said, finally.
"No," said the boy, who wasn't fading nearly slowly enough. "I am what you make me."
"Then you are wicked," said the pale-skinned boy, and started making his way again through the rising snow.
~~
um.
see what i mean? um. can't talk about this without lapsing into lala-land ^^;;
in other news.
vanityfair wrote `atrophy', which i can't even -describe-, except to say it really shouldn't have melted me and made me dissolve into little gooey weepy pieces, but it did. it's just-- so funny and perverse and touching and hot, and beautiful and unique and so aja. gah. *adores*also, i wrote a Trilogy slash manifesto for `armchair'. *laughs* as if i needed to.
EDIT: it's official. i'm being weepy for like, no. good. reason. this guy named moroboshi listed me as a favorite author-- and has `the truth about demons' as a favorite story on ff.net. ok, this may seem stupid-- but that's not a fanfic..! that's my lucifer/adam slash, and like i've never gotten any feedback on it~! like, zero. *cries* and... and... and.... someone liked it...! mmmph. no, scratch that. someone READ IT...!..!
...and i'm not even pms'ing ><;;
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
SAD?
Date: 2002-12-07 06:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-12-07 03:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-12-10 12:10 am (UTC)i'm so happy~:D it was... well... more like my "usual" writing than almost anything else, so it means more to me that you dug it~:)
even if i feel a tad guilty for adding to the seasonal woe...
on the bright side, i -should- finally get done with the happy!couch!smut in time for christmas :D
~reena
winter sadness
Date: 2003-04-03 07:17 am (UTC)And. The story. Mmm. Just...everything, the way they spoke, the world that was around them, that was so faerie tale. That was beautiful, like magick and love and everything in your thoughts coming together to create the perfect story for what you were trying to express.
I really can't say anything else about it because it's too much, I feel so emotional as it is right now and then reading that. It's exactly it.
Re: winter sadness
Date: 2003-04-04 10:25 pm (UTC)i have a weird relationship with winter, i think. i say i hate it, but it owns me, kind of, the way death does. something like that, anyway ><;;
and i don't remember the title, but i'm rather sure it's in the grimm anthology, and it has a well either in the illustration or the title ^^
though the fairy tale itself isn't all that exciting-- it's rather short, i think, i still love the imagery.
and the imagery of giving your beating heart away comes from gorky, a russian writer, who actually wrote a fairy tale like that-- when a man took out his heart for his compatriots, when they were lost in the forest, and it lit up like a candle, and he led them out of the forest, only to die when they reached open ground. i never forgot that, for some reason. it just wouldn't leave me, ever since i was like, 9 or younger. i always identified with the man. kind of creepy, for a little girl, i guess ^^;