🗒 ❛ 𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 ༄ 。
❦
Beneath the Elysian Fields,
She was encased by black;
Obsidian, oynx, Stygian,
A dreadfully alluring shade
She finds, living under Hades's hand,
The comfort she sought in life;
Perhaps she had searched then,
She would not...
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"you are not me and i am not you, but you and i are the same thing"
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2009
Blood.
It coated the ground you walked on, bathing the end of your kimono in its dark tint as you made your way through a village in disarray. Just a gaze at the debris and dead bodies was enough to resemble a Renaissance tragedy painting right in front of your eyes; it's as if you could hear their cry for mercy. It's a sight you don't mind seeing. It was up to society's probing eyes to decide whether that was fortunate or unfortunate. Nonetheless, you may have had a sinking feeling since ripped bodies, and dead children did not elicit a sense of dread from you.
Time and experience sure as hell managed to mold you into the perfect human being.
Nonetheless, what you witnessed now was trivial compared to all other matters you have seen and experienced. The metallic smell of blood was quite heavy in the air, and it caught your attention as the scent that lingered in the air made you realize what exactly you stepped into.
Sorcerers.
The answer appears to be at the root of every single disaster you've witnessed. Finally, taking a good look at your surroundings, it bemused you that it took you this long to form an answer. Even if you weren't there to see this in action, you could feel the events that occurred from beginning to end. It was also painfully clear that this was the work of a special-grade sorcerer; no average shaman had this much power. The person had the scent of their cursed energy practically strewn throughout the landscape.
It disturbed your state of mind. It was overwhelming, and you hated it. Did you miss coming back home to sights like these? No, you didn't.
It was a shame that souls of the dead were unfortunate enough to play a role in these nauseating incidents caused by disgusting beings like curses and power-hungry false deities (that's what you liked to call the rotten hearts who assumed themselves to be gods). You peered up at the still intact sakura trees, which were shedding their old, worn-out skin in the form of powder-pink blooms, their petals settling on your traditional black kasa.
You wore an amused smile on your face, feeling like you were standing under the sole solitary place in the depths of hell. Perhaps the guilty shaman felt the same way when he looked over at his masterpiece with pink petals adding a soft little touch. What a lovely feeling it must've been to be proud of your own work or even yourself. It's a feeling you never knew, a foreign one; for only the gods knew the heavy burdens and regrets you carried on your shoulders. Your clear skin bears more scars than humanly possible.
