Luna Mancante Avanti L'alba - Filippo Palizzi

moon moon has appeared ! what to do ?

act cool cuddle flatter make them mine

“ 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 , 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐓 , 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘.    they are sung as praise to heavenly objects and the salvation of the light which shall purify them of their blight, including our own agonizing world. ”    as though numerous times recited on command, the response swiftly slithered in resonance, words rolling off the tongue akin to doctrinal lecture.  she wished she could individualize it. she wished she cared for these melodies more than the duty thereof.  her fate, already a sealed verse, woven betwixt the lines. and she struggled --- she struggled, awfully so, to embody the very contents of what she sang : to simply hope with each awakened god.    “ along with ruins we find scattered around the eosian globe, those are the few remains of an era immemorial.  it is rare for anyone to understand this old language, and, therefore, not surprising if you find it more puzzling rather than coherent. even experts struggle to translate them.  my family has honored such hymns for centuries with the help of messengers, but—  if i may confide in you…  sometimes, i tire of them, just a little. ”

confession of a secret, carried in whispers behind closed doors, doubtfully stung any more than the fact of its existence ;  and to render herself vulnerable to one who proved himself ever so curious every day consisting of shared struggles and battles and rest, hardly shall be considered strange.  although in the eyes of seraphs this was unbecoming, why would she not do so, if not a single of your own words, disclosed within a silent moment between gunshots, could be forgotten ?  to her, this night still existed. your revealed wounds then still very visible, now obscured by your laughter and artificial confidence. and thus, it was one burden for another.  a fair trade which she wrapped in the pretense of a chuckle. “ don't judge me too harshly, okay ? ”

❝ —— the songs you sing, what do they even mean ? ❞ @moonichor

Charlotte Brontë, from Villette

Fire: from “A Journal of Love”, The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934–1937

Luna → Light

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 .    //    SEL ACCEPTING .

‘  i can offer you my heart, though i have no idea how many more beats it shall sustain. ’    //    @fenrirch​

𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 ?    mayhaps, because she was never meant for either ;  a woman too holy to stay    /    too holy for life.  promised to the dictated cause, engaged with demise.  she'd liked to make an exception.  just this once, if she may.  once in private where the night of the living enshrouded mene, clung and held her ever-tightly, and she, in her pure besottedness, let it all happen.  all over again which could lead to a second confession and a third, until the guilt out-wore itself like an ill-fitting dress stripped from her hips, finished and scrapped from the obligation list.  she let this happen :    your arms needy and desperate around her waist.  all the whispers which only dim lights would bear witness to, and all the touches exuding scandal, shielded by the generous curtains of the hotel room from a stalking, hierarchical gaze.  she begged not for forgiveness, she did not apologize for the single action that might have kept her alive in place, when, otherwise, she would have so effortlessly slipped away from our fingers.

“ plenty of them, i hope. ”    a laugh pushed through a forced sicle-shape, the embarrassed flush of her cheeks no less romantic in nature.  it’s grit teeth rather than amusement.  the jaw clenched briefly, the sinew of her tender neck tense against your comforting breath.  how could one think of it as anything other than torment, knowing she would take that warrior’s heart with her into the grave, instead of soothing its harrow grief ?  yes, confessions were this terrible.  and still, she had counted your battle scars, the magic trails, each flaw and scratch.  lithe fingertips followed worn tissue to the crux of a violent pulse.  her hand atop, resting, because ophelia wanted something else than to float in the pond.  it was too cold in there.  she'd rather crawl ashore and be warmed up by another foolish jest of yours.  her sweet, heedless soldier with an eroding hero-complex.    “ you are such a silly man  —  why must you be this dramatic ? ”    though not overdone, for she simply did not wish to admit it.  but a holy woman was not meant for confessions, or for clumsy dancing after too many a glass of wine, or for a tender peck after too sweet a girlish giggle.  so you said what you said and tried your hardest to not kill her with it.  because love, as always, equated to religion, and religion called for death.  of course, you’d never let her go this far, but she would and you would indeed go this far, and you both knew this.

𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐒𝐓 ?    —    did it hurt to see, to hear, to smell, to taste, to touch ?  did it hurt, to be and not to be ?  yes.  it did, indeed, every day.  she witnessed afflictions of that which she should not have, but a fleuret woman was ordained to stand between the visible and invisible, the confessed and unconfessed, the yoke of human-flow riding through her, the moon, the stars, the sun, trampling o’er them with all their might, all they had in store.  the misery, the revulsion, the ashes of a village or the thunders between gears, putrefaction stuffed into where it should not be, the embers of death beneath her bare heels.  the progression, the regression, the stasis crystalline of encased einherjar.  the undreamed, and the lucid dreams.  all that taken and shaken deep into the bones, the moon so close to bleed it all out / the stars so close to blink out.  was this what mother wished for her daughters, the long-winded thread of barbed wire wrapped around their golden heads ?  the taking of sin, and giving back oblivion ?  was this her doting parenthood ?  “ i hope she did not.  may etro bless her heart to rest peacefully. ”  o etro, o fallen light,  did it hurt to exist ?  did it hurt to give light and receive back every sin committed, every fear felt, every laughter strangled off the throat ?  we all would carry dying inside of us, the way the oxygen shriveled us till all that was left was a little glint, leaving or hiding away from etro’s clay.  “ or have you…. have you seen her ?  out there ? ” // @asterites

𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒. or at least that is what the ancient scriptures had dubbed these augury of souls. the broken fractured of light, unseen by all, existing inside the aortic construct of pulsing organism. t'was the gift of a desperate goddess, an unholy sentiment donned upon the flesh of the first women and her children. how fascinating it was to understand : we are all born rotten before we are made pure. holiness, sacristy, neither would have existed without the beautiful chaos that trifles that of heavenly order. the words of the dead undoubtedly guides the stars more intimately then that of life, for soft-chosen reservation is bereft of conventual guidance. ❝ whether it be regret or fear, the concept of non-existence is still quite terrifying. they cling to the shadows and covet in what is familiar. they reject death as fervently as life had rejected them. it only makes my heart ache more. ❞ in the layers of deep affinity, she unsheds the truth of sacrificial burdens —— it suffocated her. deeply. violently. the horrors that she has seen, the things she dares not repeat, and perhaps even her own glorification of bedlam did nothing but weaken her inner psyche. say selene, was it the same for you too ? when the blood moon rises and sheds its light to the world, when humanity looks to you for answers, do they shed their sins onto you ? did they just expect their pain to just disappear ? to answer your calling : did it hurt to exist ? ❝ when mother departed in this world, do you think she had any regrets ? ❞

" 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒 ; or are the deeper interiors leading to the fayth something that unsettles you ? i noticed you have grown tense upon our visits. " // @reginrokkr

MAKE YOUR MUSE AS A BUNNY !   ( lunafreya and selene )

tagged by : @oniriqe tagging : honestly if none of you will steal this i will judge you so hard