Carousel of Delusion _____________________________________ The earth quakes and cracks apart As hailstones descend and flames rise up Yet here we all are still sitting in our saddles Like the world around us isn’t experiencing a crisis Riding as if the icy, fiery, shaky ground beneath Is just dust blown into the past by the hooves of Some of nature’s imitations we built to escape danger
Merry in oblivion, we go round, up and down, up and down Listening to a cacophony of merry-go-round melodies Drown out the cries of problems we choose not to see And the world slowly sinks while we convince ourselves We’re riding towards an angelic sunset Blind to how we rotate in place amidst an apocalypse Over and over, meeting the same geographical space As if repeating the same actions a hundredfold Would propel us into a future of unbreakable peace Decorating modern advancement of humanity Achieved without a single step stridden By those who dreamt of moving forward in the first place
Oh how we’ve fallen, thinking a man-made craft Could lift us back up again from underneath the debris Of predicted storms we dared ignore just ‘cause Maybe we’re so used to things fixing themselves That we more often than not allow destruction To come prowling in, a mountain lion Preying upon the stallions we wish we could be
I figured if everything in the universe is me and vice versa, then writing to myself is like writing to an inanimate item, but which of the mes am I writing to? Am I writing to my favorite fork? Maybe my childhood tree house? What about the Eiffel Tower all the way in Paris or that one loaf of bread burning in an oven somewhere?
What if I receive a letter in return from a faraway star in an undiscovered galaxy that begins with a “Dear Me” also? What if so many of us write back in response that all it does is cause chaos? We’re all me, but who are we? Does it matter more than I thought- each and every single one of us using a unique designation to call ourselves by? Should I no longer refer to who I see in the mirror as myself? Or does it only apply to the things I look at but don’t see a me identical to the form I’m currently using?
What if the inner discussions I have with myself are truly all different points of view, just that they’re narrated with the voice of the body I inhabit? For all I know, the struggle I had with myself last night on whether I should drink soda or water was not the me I am now. I could have simply thought, “I’m thirsty,” and, unnoticeably, two other mes, somewhere else in this world of us, answered right away with their suggestions. One- an empty bottle still sitting in the factory waiting to be filled. The other- a fake, potted plant hoping that soaking up H2O like all the greenery outside will make it just as lush and bright. (P.s. the suggested soda was too tempting)
If all we are is each other and each of us is me, then aren’t we all oblivious to the oblivion within us. There're many pieces of ourself we’ve forgotten and won’t ever find again. What if this letter is to one of the unremembered? What do I say when I can’t think of anything besides, “Sorry no one remembers you,” however, is an apology even necessary? Yeah, I might not recognize who you are but, in the end, my point is that we are all one which means you’re also me and I’m not the type to forget even myself.
Maybe all the mes tossed into oblivion are now disguised as the mes in my dreams of alternate worlds made of someone else. Then, again, is there anything to say sorry for? I may not remember but knowing and remembering are two different things. Just because I don’t remember what I know doesn’t mean I no longer know at all. So just because you’ve been erased doesn’t mean you’ve never existed and just because you cease to exist here doesn't mean you can't exist elsewhere. If the absence of your existence was the truth, then where the heck would I deliver this letter to? Even something imaginary is considered real to the individual who dared to imagine, therefore, being that individual, we are real. And, though, all I’ve written here so far might be a compilation of fallacies- so what? All of the fallacies are me as well. We never end. We’re everywhere, everyone, and everything.
Anyways, taking this theory into consideration, let me start the actual letter:
Dear Me, You’re awesome! Yours truly, Me
P.s. This doesn’t make me (us) a narcissist, does it?
I didn’t know what to do lol ♀️ Btw if u see any big, odd spaces randomly placed around, there's probs just an emoji not visible to u there, k? #bluepup#bayentry#Ltseasonc ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 4 Seasons Group Chat ------------------------------- Spring: Dear Fellow Seasons,
It is with utmost joy that I announce the coming of a new time. Winter has ended the year perfectly and is doing her best to forge a suitable path for rebirth in the grand scheme of things. I shall do my best in not allowing her hard work to melt away without reward blooming beneath the snow.
Warm Regards, Spring
❄ Winter: Uhh… Ur welcome? Thx?
Summer: What're you even doing Summer: What's with the formal message, Spring?
Spring: I just figured we should start out the year with clear minds and a will to do better… ya know… we kind of made 2020 a mess… we should try to make up for it, no? :)
Fall: We did nothing wrong Fall: We weren’t the ones that screwed up last year, remember?
Spring: Not exactly, but we definitely didn't help much either
Fall: So? We just did our jobs as was scheduled Fall: The humans r the ones who made it worse. They're always causing us trouble smh
Summer: Ikr they're such a pain but at the same time it makes everything more entertaining lmao I can't wait 'til it's my turn to mess with em lol
❄ Winter: Uhh… I actually think they're quite nice
Summer: Why? Lol Summer: They complain about you the most Summer: How could you possibly think of them as nice?
❄ Winter: I dunno… just do ig… reasons…
Summer: Sigh ♀️ You never make any sense
❄ Winter: I am what I am. It is what it is.
Summer: … Summer: Anyways Summer: Did you have anything special in mind to do, Spring? Summer: We'll hear ya out All s
Spring: Um not really Spring: I was hoping we could come up with something together :)
Summer: Alright alright Summer: Then I've got an idea already. Hear me out, yeah? Summer: So my idea is… Summer: Drum roll please
Muse 1.0 ------------------ How can I ever run out of words when words themselves are my muse?
To You, From Me:
When I don’t know what to write, I think of you and begin to type. There’s no such thing as writer’s block if you take ‘em all and build a tower to live in like a child with legos and an endless imagination.
“What to write? What to write?” people ask.
My advice will always be you. “Write about writing and you’ll never be lost, for it’ll always be everyone’s default muse.”
One may have customized every topic they’ve chosen for aesthetics, to express emotions, or just to empty one’s mind, but when all else fails and one feels as if they can’t pen a single thing, you’re forever there to assist- offer a metaphorical shoulder as a lift (not a pillow to cry on). You’re there to remind them where everything started before everyone kept pressing the update button.
And me? I’m someone who never dares to press update. I stay where I know I’m comfortable, where everything is just right- not too this and not too that (call me Goldilocks for all I care). To me, you’re no longer just a default. You’re what I chose myself- not what I was forced to comply with. You’re a solid foundation that supports even a tumbling tower of building blocks like myself (lol apparently we’re both good at playing Jenga). Above all, you’re my muse. All I ever want to write about is you and until I was challenged to write this letter, I never knew. Sorry for realizing so late but aren’t infatuated people usually the last ones to recognize what they’re feeling? I think that fact says it all.
For when you yourself are my muse, how can the page ever remain blank? How could the tower ever truly stop climbing? How could the sky ever end?
We noticed how a snowflake of ours landed upon a tear streaming down your cheek one night. It was then we worried if maybe we made it too cold for your already weakened heart to bear. But we didn’t want to leave just yet. Why? We weren’t sure. We’ve never gravitated towards a single land floater like that before, but, for whatever fate’s reason, whether to freeze your tears, numb the pain, or other, we stayed and let it snow 'til sunrise. ~ Sending more snow kisses soon in case you need them.
Sincerely, Snow Clouds
Dear Snow Clouds,
The other night, I kneeled outside and looked to the seemingly dark and empty sky. I saw no difference between it and the heart thumping inside my chest.
Everything was numb except my nose, burning red from the freezing temperatures, yet I know I felt it. It was barely a whisper that touched my cheek- cold but comforting, a snowflake. It melted too fast for me to believe there was more than just a cloudless sky above. Yet, at that moment, when my hope started to fade, another fell, then another, and another. All around me snowflakes swayed, twirling about in all their bright, white grace.
I couldn’t thank you all enough for showing me what could be hidden within a supposed void when I was just about to drown in mine to end it all.
With all the gratitude a human can give, A stranger on the ground
Happens… Days like this The ones where you feel as if You’re the only one who exists There’s nothing- no one else Only soundless static in empty space And maybe a bed to shelf yourself No bookmark to show Where you should begin No ellipsis to let you know there’s more Than an upcoming happy or sad end No title but you think You already know what to expect So why not just lie here Do nothing except breathe ‘Cause why do anything when Your sheets are sweltering sands Of deserted passion And you’re just the burnt pages Buried deeeeeep beneath them Waiting for a tsunami to appear- Floods of watercolors Pretending to be an oasis Painting supposed purpose Into your ghost-towned incentive And filling the silence with waves Of all the dreams you used to have Rippling about- Not because stones are thrown But because you decided, one day, To learn how to swim
[The Story Royce is Reading] “I said I’ll come with you, alright, so just put the sword down!”
“Ha!” without warning, he slashes his hostage’s stomach open, “You say that but how can I trust you?”
I focus on the pain of my nails digging into my skin to keep calm, “You should know me well enough to know I always keep my word. Need I say more?”
“That’s a good point actually,” he strokes his beard and says with his grating voice, “Alright, let’s go then. My boys will send the kid back to town safely. I swear it.” He stabs the sword between the rocks and the salty breeze.
“So we’ve got a deal then? You release my brother and I take you where you wanna go?”
“Yeah, that’s the deal. Why? You have something to add?” His face only gets more menacing when his brow raises and a mischievous grin appears.
“Not really. You?”
His face droops in what I think might be disappointment before he hesitates to say, “Nope. Let’s go then, shall we? Boys! Take him.” The lackeys on standby rush up on either side of my brother’s weak and bleeding body. I wince as I hear a pained groan when they lift him up by his underarms and start to drag him along the shore. The lackeys then share what I assume to be a subservient glance with their captain.
“After I’m done, I’ll come to find you right away, you hear? You’re gonna be alright,” I try to assure him but, honestly, between the two of us, I don’t know who’s more afraid. Then I pivot around, naively trusting the words of a marauder’s promise. The few steps I take fill my ears with gravel, but, a second later, what I hear is a sound I don’t even want to describe. My body freezes for only a moment, yet a moment is enough time for flashbacks, of what one could have done better, to engrave themselves within a guilty heart. I turn, again, to see the face of my brother looking down at the fist buried wrist-deep into the fresh wound on his stomach. The next instant, his guts are yanked out and raised skyward towards the circling gulls screeching above.
My heart begins to beat erratically, its rhythm overwhelming my senses. The pounding of it echoing off the walls of my skull syncs with the image I have of my brother’s last breath. All I can do is stand shocked- motionless. Why did this happen? What did I do wrong? What could I have done? What do I do now? Who am I without my brother?
[Royce pauses reading] Royce pats his hand over his rapidly beating heart, “Well, that escalated quickly.”
[Royce reads again] I fall to my knees. Sand and sharp stones dig into the bloody marks I dug into my hands earlier, but it barely stings compared to the gut-wrenching realization I come across: It’s all my fault…
I see a sword sticking out of the bloody rocks from the corner of my eye. Just the glare reflecting off the blade is enough to make my skin feel as if it’s being sliced through.
...No! It’s his fault! It’s all his fault! My brother would still be alive if it weren’t for him!
I charge. Grabbing the sword, I rush at my enemy with his own weapon. Against better judgment, I attempt to skewer him with pure rage. Innards come flying at my face. I dodge, just barely, while continuing forward. Putting all my weight behind the blade, I aim for the same place where he brutally impaled my brother. He lunges for me at the same time, bare-handed. Suddenly, I’m tackled to the ground from the left side and land hard enough to dislocate my shoulder. The sword flew from my grip. My mind clears up a bit to process what just happened. I take a deep breath as the lackey that tackled me backs off in response to the swipe of his captain’s hand motioning to not interfere. Slowly, I stand up. He and I survey each other, waiting to see who moves first.
[Royce pauses] “Oh, c’mon!” Royce shouts as he rolls his right shoulder back to unwind the sudden ache, perhaps from slouching too long, “Why the heck would you just charge at him like a raging bull?! He’s a pirate, not a matador!”
[Royce continues] A seagull settles itself between us- apparently our signal to attack. It squawks then flies off when we dash towards each other once again. A feather or two falls between our punches. The wind picks up as we clash. Eventually, he wrestles me to the ground. One side of my face gets dragged across the gravel. No doubt my face is scarred. I try to kick him off of me, but he’s built like a whale, so I, instead, grab, break, and poke a seashell into the backside of the hand pressing down on my cheek. Surprisingly, his face just flinches before he pulls it out then firmly grips my chin with his bleeding hand, forcing me to see the crazed grin he’s giving. I can’t move out of the way in time. A scream escapes my throat. A bright light quickly flashes before everything goes black. He keeps shoving the jagged half of the seashell deeper inside my eye. Excruciating pain floods my senses like the waves crashing down behind us. I put all my strength into pushing his arms away. We come to a stalemate where he can’t use the shell to get to my brain and I can’t force the shell out of my eye. We lie there, one on top of the other, still struggling. The one good eye I have left turns everything I see red from all the blood gushing out of its twin.
“Hey, Kyser! Don’t you wanna go meet your kid brother?” he cackles.
[IRL] “Huh? Gosh! Am I crying?” Royce, without glancing away from the page, uses a sleeve of his maroon shirt to wipe away tears he doesn’t realize consist of blood.
[Story being read] “Not before I avenge him!” I spit in his face- close enough to the phrase, ‘An eye for an eye,’ I think. His hold on me finally loosens. I take the opportunity to knee his groin, then roll out from underneath him. With one hand covering my oozing eye socket, I quickly crawl and reach out towards the sword lying a few feet away on the ground. Though a little late, I hear him chase after me. Right as I’m about to touch the hilt of the sword, I get pulled down by my ankle. I rotate onto my back, getting into prime position for some kicks to be sent his way. Within my fist, I gather some gravel and throw it as hard as I can in hopes of buying more time. But my plan is for naught. I didn’t consider how a pirate would, of course, already know every dirty trick in the book, let alone my amateur moves. Expecting it, he uses his rum flask to shield his face while he plows his way through with pebbles flying everywhere. He lifts my torso up by the collar of my tattered shirt.
“Wait! Wait! Wait!” I shout. And he listens. “Didn’t you want me to take you there? You need me alive!”
He looks as if he gives it some thought, smiles, and then says, “But do I really?” He flicks his chin up a bit to the right. Shing! The sword is tossed over my head. The captain catches it perfectly and sets the sharp edge on my neck. I almost don’t notice how a drop of my blood is drawn.
I gulp, “Yes?”
[IRL] Royce gasps for air. Gurgling sounds fill the room as blood spills from his mouth. His hands press onto the deep gash that appeared on his throat. The book has fallen to the floor. And, soon, Royce falls from his chair. He looks at the ceiling with blood pouring from one of his eyes. Confusion runs rampant in his mind before blankness arrives. Silence. ... A transparent figure awaits the appearance of Royce’s soul above their fresh corpse before saying, “I told you you needed me.”
“What do you mean, ‘Could I not?’ It’s literally my purpose in this life.”
“What kind of purpose in life is to talk over other people while they are trying to read? You’ve been doing this for almost the whole book already. Just shut up for a second. It’s getting to an important scene, and I don’t want you ruining it like you always do,” Royce says. His fingertips begin to turn as pale as the corner of the page tightly pressed between them.
“Wow, you really mean that? Do you not realize how much you need me? That hurts, man.”
“Oh, don’t try to guilt-trip me. In what world would I need a voice inside my head to copy everything I say for no reason at all other than to aggravate me to death?!”
“Hey, I’m not the one trying to kill you here! And why is it only you who has the say in this? What if you aggravate me too? In fact, I should be the one most annoyed here since you’re the one in control of our body,” roars Inner Royce (who would certainly be flailing his arms about in frustration if he had arms to control), “Did you ever think about that?! Huh? Wouldn’t you be more upset than you are now if, instead, you had to watch an idiot like yourself make stupid decisions all day and not be able to do anything about them?”
“Oh, wow. That’s going too far!” Royce slams the arm of the chair with his free hand.
“Is it?! Is it really, though?! Think about it!”
“There’s no point in thinking about it. All I care about right now is having you leave me the hell alone for freakin’ once in our life!”
“Fine then! Have it your way! Treat it as a lesson on why you can’t live without me!” Inner Royce gives this final remark as he fades into nowhere.
“The only thing I’ll be learning today is how I should have gotten rid of your stupid voice sooner!” Silence. Royce is confused for a moment before realizing the voice within his head has finally disappeared. Relishing in the never before attained quietude, he turns the page with a smirk of victory and continues reading from where he left off.
#bluepup#blue_truedare#cyanentry @_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Her Little Story-Bird Part 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~ 54 Years Later ~~~~~~~~~~~ The 80-year-old author sat down at her attic desk one evening, feebly shouting, “Paramythi! Paramythi, where are you? It’s time for a story!” As usual, the bird of diamonds, gold, sapphire, and rubies swooped in from an open window, placing its find of the day in front of the woman. “What have you got for me today, Myth?” It picked up the object once again just to drop the star-shaped button a few steps closer, glancing up to see her reaction. “Another star to add to our collection, I see.” The woman held the star button closer to her face to get a better look. “It’s beautiful,” she said and carefully added it to one of many jars full of knick-knacks Paramythi brought home over the years.
With hands shaking, she picked up the new story, the papers quaking along with her. “You remember, right?” she avoids Paramythi’s eyes, “I won’t be able to write much longer for you. I can feel it. So, you remembered what I taught you, right?” The author finally faced her little story-bird. Paramythi hopped over to the ink pad and tapped a foot twice on it. With claws painted a deep shade of midnight, the gold bird fluttered over to an empty sheet lying on the desk. A tap here. A tap there. The little story-bird tap-danced into existence a single-sentenced story of its own that said, “Stay with me forever.” A sorrowful yet relieved, pecan-scented sigh released itself as the woman caressed Paramythi’s head. “It seems you remember well enough to survive without me, but if I could stay with you forever, Myth, I would.” Paramythi nuzzled its beak up against the woman’s wrist as if to comfort both of them.
After some silent consolation, the woman offered her story to Paramythi. The words soared off the page and into a treasury of tomes inside the soul of a golden trinket. However, unlike usual, Paramythi wasn’t satisfied. It tilted its head in contemplation, but as the bird’s thoughts roamed, the old woman began to slump down in her chair. Paramythi didn’t yet notice, for it blankly stared at the black markings trailing the desk it had unmindfully made while flapping about earlier. A wrinkled hand belonging to an unknown author reached out to spread warmth one last time to her little story-bird. Tap. Tap. Paramythi, wondering why its beak was being tapped, turned to see what the woman wanted. Nonetheless, what was seen was not what it expected, for mellow silence welcomed the author in the attic as she slumbered. Tap. Tap. Paramythi responded.
Her little story-bird then skipped over towards the micro tale it had created. “Stay with me forever,” soaked like ink between the lines of the golden bird’s beak. Immediately, Paramythi felt fuller than ever, and a change began to take place. Its shine faded with each ring of an invisible bell. The jewels embellished on the edges of its metallic skin fell one by one. Blind it became as the diamond eyes it used to perceive the world landed in the palm where it sent its last goodbye. White, silver, gold, red, blue, and black wisps of energy withdrew from the gold shell it once was contained within. Loosely in the shape of a bird, the energy strands rose, and through the window, as one entity, they left the attic. Its destination- the sky. It traced the night with its wings, settling in a place between others of its kind. A constellation to forever be known as Paramythi- a golden bird having fed on fairy tales to create its myth alongside a lonely storyteller, made its presence known for the first time in honor of its author.
@_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ U said to use these lines from The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow: “a tiny ornate golden bird beautifully enameled and glittering all over with gold and precious stones...It was so small, so richly jewelled, so perfect. She bent to look at it more closely, and for a moment, in the dim light, it seemed, almost as if it were looking back at her. Its jewel eye glinted, as if it were winking.” #blue_truedare#bluepup#cyanentry But you didn’t say how to lol ; ) So I mixed em up a tiny bit ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Her Little Story-Bird
In the dim light, it was looking back at her. She bent to look at it more closely and, for a moment, its jewel eye glinted as if it were winking. It was so small, so richly jeweled, so perfect. It seemed almost as if a tiny, ornate golden bird, beautifully enameled and glittering all over with gold and precious stones, had breathed in enough of the words she always wrote. And those words granted it life. It was everything she had created over the years, all compiled into one consciousness, then accidentally stored inside the shiny shell of a trinket passed down for generations.
Delicately, she reached out her hand to touch it. The golden bird reacted by curiously tilting its head and beginning to flutter about in circles above her fingers. Eventually, it landed its little feet in her palm, tapping some talons twice on her skin as if to say hello. Wonderstruck by the unintentional success of her creation, she smiled and responded in kind by gently tapping on the tip of its beak twice.
Innocently, it blinked a few times as they met eyes, almost questioning why itself was alive. She, too, did not know the answer and, as that thought dawned upon her, grew anxious. Her mind filled with just one question, “How long will this little story-bird of mine survive?” She sniffled at that sudden thought in an attempt to not cry, but, little did she know, a tear had already settled in her eye. The bird let out a sad, metallic chirp- its diamond eyes glistening empathy. “It’s alright,” the woman said softly, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” She closed her eyelids in a smile, the tear sliding down her cheek. “Oh, dear me! Where’d that come from?” she laughingly choked out while wiping it away, “So, what should I call you? Hmm? How about Paramythi?” That time, Paramythi sang in delight at its new name. ~~~~~~~~~ 3 Years Later ~~~~~~~~~ “Paramythi! Paramythi, where are you? It’s time for a story!” the woman called out. Paramythi then swooped in from the attic window and landed on the desk in front of its author. “What have you got there?” she asked while pointing at the thing in Paramythi’s mouth. The bird of jeweled gold dropped the object in front of the woman. It was a charm bracelet decorated with stars and crescent moons. Paramythi looked up proudly into the woman’s eyes, perhaps waiting for some praise to rain down on its job well done. “You didn’t steal from some poor, little kid when they weren’t paying attention, did you?” she said. Immediately, Paramythi flailed its wings around and stamped its little feet on the wooden surface of the desk, seemingly offended by the accusation. A giggle flew from the woman’s lips, “I’m only teasing.” In an if-you-say-so but still-unhappy kind of manner, the golden bird relaxed its feathers and sat down with its head, embarrassedly, turned away.
“Oh, c’mon, now, don’t be like that. I’m sorry, okay. Do you forgive me?” the woman asked. No response. Then stretching out her syllables, she said, “I’ll only give you the story if you forgive me.” No response. Finally, the woman said, “Oh, look what I’ve got here! I just wrote this story, but I feel as if it’s not good enough. Maybe I should throw it away,” she glances over at the golden bird, still seeing no response, “I’m really gonna do it. I’m throwing it away now. Oh, look! The furnace is gobbling it all up.” At those last words, Paramythi hopped up, ready to fly into action to save its delicious meal. However, what awaited it was the sight of its mischievous author dangling the paper by her face. The bird’s lower beak dropped as its diamond eyes exuded a how-could-I-have-fallen-for-that feeling. Betrayed, Paramythi huffed and puffed, circling about, as if demanding to be given an apology in the form of a particular short story. “Oh, alright! I won’t tease you any longer,” the woman relented with a shake of her head.
The author set the story down in front of Paramythi. The story-bird inspected the words by pecking at them a bit. After confirming its standards were reached, Paramythi nibbled at the first word, gripped it within its beak, then slurped up the rest of the sentence like a chick would a worm provided by its mother. Letter by letter, the cursive surrendered to Paramythi- its tale becoming a new strand of DNA inside the once-upon-a-time hollow library within itself. And, soon, the story came to an end.
“Feel better?” the woman asked, and the golden bird, who just had its fill, let out a peep. However, the smile the woman showed wasn’t all there, for she worried if Paramythi didn’t amass enough stories to keep going, how its life could come to “The End” as well.
At the river I dream , my dove,
And hear again sweet words of love.
Chastushka is a form of Russian folklore. It usually consists of two, four or six lines which rhyme. The subject consists of events of personal life such as love, jealousy, separation, unhappy love and various social and community happenings.