CONTEXT HERE:

CONTEXT HERE:

hello❤️

❤️❤️to everybody who has been reading my silly old words, thank you very, very much for all your kindness and support. truly, you all are one of the best people i have ever encountered.❤️❤️

recently, i have posted this story on here. it's one of the few stories that i have written that i think are half-decent.

as far as i've seen, y'all don't seem too favourable toward my stories (you seem to like my so-called 'poems' more).

i do have a personal interest in story-writing and had in mind a kinda sorta developed universe-type thing with Wisteria and Aris. if you answer favourably to this poll, i will do my best and work on this project. if not, i don't want to waste your time or provide you with content that doesn't stay w/ you.

also, please, please, please provide feedback on this story. i very desperately want to improve my craft and i believe that the first step to improvement is constructive feedback. be as cruel as you can, i can (and should) handle it.

and, to all of you out there who take out valuable time on your day to check up on this blog and read the tiny, silly things i write, thank you so very, very much. all of your love, support and care truly makes my day.

also, so very sorry for posting this again, my stupid self only just realised that i didn't set the timer for longer, so nobody was able to vote. please, please, please, make sure to vote. i love to hear from y'all, and, i mean, art exists only with its audience. thank you, each and every single one of you, for making mine something a little worthwhile❤️❤️

You are rendered speechless for a moment. This room around you feels unfamiliar. You have no recollection of ever having been in a building with a huge hallway-like room whose walls are covered in what seems to be yellowing tiles whose once-had splendour could have been imposing enough to scare you, but now they only tire you.

"Nightstand?", you wonder. "What's that supposed to be?"

Before looking for any key, you look around your room to let it all sink in. The note posted hastily onto the wall beside you seems to be written by those odd machines that the Others possess. This was something you'd heard about the Others- they apparently have not developed enough to create MemoWrites and, to make life easier, seem to just use mechanical devices. Pity.

The area you're currently occupying resembles a bedroom which, by the looks of it, was pre-owned and used by another (and therefore heavily customised). The bedroom appears to only be a section of a larger room. This larger room appears to be a passageway or a corridor of sorts with tiled marble walls--each of the tiles looks bleak and imposing, almost meant to instil a semblance of seriousness but their very obvious age (displayed though peels, cracks and yellowing) now only makes them appear tiring. You notice the oddity of this; the section you are sitting in is vastly different from the rest of the room. To you, it feels as if there used to be walls around your section that appear to have been removed by some means. You wonder which sort of Others these are, who can simply remove and place walls per their own will. The section you are occupying, instead of having tiled walls, is covered in what seems to be some form of decorative paper. The paper on your walls has leaves painted onto them in soft 'pastel' greens (that's what the Others call those colours, isn't it?) and there are a few posters stuck onto the walls with a little more care that the note. The posters are one of the few that you can recognize as something you might see back in your home timeline. You remember receiving and putting up your first poster; a large rose inked in gold with wings around it, inscribed onto a print of black marble. You remember your Insignia well. The posters here don't seem to hold as much significance as they do back at your home. You spot a poster of what appears to be a lightning bolt with... glasses? and 2 small letters below-- HP.

That's an odd Insignia, you think to yourself. And it has initials? These Others are quite the oddity.

Another poster has what some groups of Others call a 'rock band'. You have always wondered what that even meant- as far as you know, rocks did not make good circular or hollowed objects, let alone something like an elastic band. You had heard a few samples of rock 'music' a few years back, in Time Studies. Again, you wondered about the rock part. Were these people really so far behind that they still used rocks to make instruments? No wonder they didn't still have MemoWrites.

The poster had no initials beneath, it just had the words 'Rock On!' written in (Cursive, was it?) Cursive handwriting.

Why did all the Others have odd names for things? Could they not just have normal, sensible names for things once in a while?

The decorative paper takes you back to your grandmother's house. Your grandmother had her house painted in a way very similar to the way this room had been wallpapered. She used to say, "If the place you live doesn't represent you, what's the point of calling it 'home'?". She inspired you to paint your own walls, and it was a decision you haven't regretted since. Your grandmother, you reminisce, was an... expressive woman. You loved how frank, open and honest she was. You loved how bubbly and confident she was. You, sadly, were not everybody else. People often misunderstood your kind grandmother and, with her disposition, she got in trouble far too often. There was one thing she taught you, though, and that was to unapologetically be yourself. Her confidence inspired you, and she always, always told you to never let another's biases influence your opinions or change how you present yourself and your thoughts.

Waves of repulsion course over you. You despise this world that contains no trace of your grandmother and her loving, robust personality with every fibre of your being. I have to get out of here, you silently think to yourself.

Now, onto that key.

You try to find something that looks like a key, but you spot nothing that looks even remotely similar to a small piece of bluish plastic. You instead find an oddly shaped metal object sitting on top of what you are used to calling shelvings.

You try to reach the 'key' with whatever little energy your body can muster. You hadn't yet realised how much pain you were in. You feel a dull pain echoing through every inch of your body. Your head is pulsing, and your skull feels like it is being compressed under a hydraulic press from all sides. Your brain feels weak. Your palms are trembling-you seem to have lost some motor control. Just as you try to move your body just a little bit, your entire body caves in, and you fall down with a thud. You let out an exasperated sigh and lift yourself back up. You aren't able to. You attempt slowly dragging yourself over to the shelvings and manage to get a little further that way.

You reach the shelvings and try to reach for the metallic object. You muster a little strength and try to direct it to your fingers to stabilise them. Once your fingers stop trembling as much, you slam your palm down onto the top of the shelving and drag your hand over the surface to find the metal. After a little bit of 'searching' (if you could even call it that), you feel something cold against your skin. Not the cold of ice, but that of untouched metal. You grab on, let your arm fall to you and lift yourself up. You manage to do it this time. You frantically search the chains binding you for any of those holes that you have seen in the primitive hole-and-stick system you have studied Other civilizations using.

After what feels like millennia of searching, you finally find a hole. You stick the object in and turn it to the right, hoping for the best. You hear a small 'click' like the click of gears - the metal clinks onto the floor - off comes the first chain. You search for a hole in the second chain-you find one - gears click together - off comes the second one.

Newfound freedom puts enough energy in your voice for you to make your voice just loud enough for somebody sitting 6 inches away from you to barely be able to hear you saying, 'I'm coming back to you, Nana.'

(this is a work in progress. will rb soon w/ updates. thanks for ur time❤️❤️)

You wake up with what feels like a terrible hangover, the dilapidated room around you is unfamiliar and you are chained to the bed, written on the ceiling is the message “If you can read this you’re human enough to use the key on the nightstand”

as i lie on the lap of the earth, basking in her light i remain drenched in the joy of knowing that every cherubic, loving little poet, including my tiny heart (full to bursting with love and praise is the most cherished, most memorable and closest lover of her whose lap i lie on.

every heartbeat feels infinitely long, with your warm breaths blanketing my shivering, tiny heart. every blink of your gorgeous, full eyes feels indefinite, unending, with the love that fills them flooding every corner of my heart.

unwittingly buried

you fear, do you that your unnoticed, shadowed self does not possess enough beauty to tickle the fancies of the fickle human mind to that, i ask you, have you seen the mist? you, the dream child of a hundred poets, you, the starlit lake that we wish to bring home with such a thoughtful mind as yours have you not marvelled at it?

you, darling sun-child, have not. had you seen the dearest mist, you would say otherwise. for every time i hear 'mist', i think of the epitome of beauty.

the mist is what all of us aspire to be. her veiled allure, beheld only by her closest, are all these not things to love? do they not enhance the preciousness of her charm?

she might seem often overlooked, seeming pointless and simply decorative - useless to your purpose; but that is the very thing that beautifies her! do you not understand this?

you, my dear moonlit fantasy, do not. for the mist is one whose beauty is so powerful that if you were to witness it head-on, you would become unable to function. because unnoticed beauty is only gone unnoticed because it is far too efficient and far too perfect to be able to tread in the forefront of human perception without causing the world to rush into uproar in fascination of it.

the mist, my dearest Persian pearl, is so unfathomably beautiful she is so dear, so charming, so darling, daring and cordial so patient, untiring, serene her beauty, already so efficient enhanced by her impermeable veil of mystique still only amounts to the beauty held in your nailbeds.

it shocks me, my dear that you seem to see yourself as nonexistent and worthless when your apparent 'unseen' beauty has such a daring effect over even the strongest of hearts

every tiny bit of you that (apparently) goes unseen is a unique, burning, shining star and you, a constellation celestial being on earth, you are so bright, so full so gorgeous, so fiery that even idly watching you would be far too much of a burden to bear.