❝𝘿𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂, 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙀 𝘼𝙎 𝘿𝙀𝘼𝘿 𝘼𝙎 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝘼𝙔 𝙄𝙎 𝙇𝙊𝙉𝙂. ❞
↣ A PARADOX IN WHICH
a girl rises and falls
like the Empire of Rome,
knowing not of
what she has gained,
but instead of what
she has los...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
『 Chapter 33 』
⤐ ♤ « 〚♞〛 » ♤ ⬷
Y/N always loved the smell of smoke.
Not cigarette smoke, per se, no, that smelled of disease and distorted hope. That smell was phony and false, a half-hearted attempt to become something as illusive and simple as smoke. Cigarette smoke was the smell of failure and loss, the lowest form of the human mind and the disregard for self preservation.
Cigarette smoke was artificial and hand-crafted, though it was not crisp like stone, it was bedeviled by the human nature that is dark and dreary. Smoke has been tainted into something that it is not, and its definition to the mind of the average man is negative and poor.
She needs to take her fingers and stain them with the ink of prose and production, swiping the tip of her makeshift pen across the oil-dusted pages of the universe, ripping apart stars and bending blackholes across spacetime. And when her document has been embroidered with constellations—maybe the world would really know what smoke is truly supposed to mean.
It's meant to be watched with the delicate eye of a connoisseur and matched in song with the symphonic beats of a steel drum, a French horn screaming the importance of its brass twists while the opera house peels back their souls and lets out their chorus. Y/N is the conductor, leading them forth with the spin of her wrist to represent the cleanliness and purity that is true smoke.
Smoke is the vapor of quartz, breaking light into fragments and taking away the moon. It grows like the head of a hydra, grabbing and clawing for breath like a starved raptor. Smoke is spearheaded on spiraling control and effervescent prosperity and expansion—it's so pure in the sense that it seeks a singular goal while the other side splits their loyalties like glass.
There's a moment of clarity when the smoke first hits her with its overwhelming scent of wooden bark and scorched leaves. A stinging sense sticks against the tip of her tongue, it tastes of burnt food, ashy and flakey. It feels heavenly, like the world had warped itself to her prayers in an attempt to make up the atrocities it had plagued her with.
Her eyes drift towards the sky where the pillars of foggy gray begin to coil on their way to the stratosphere, spreading out like a splash of blood against the snow. They undulate and distort around the brambles as if they were slithering snakes, sneaking around a land looking for pray.
Y/N thinks about how selfish she is to be smiling. She's grinning, heart glowing in her chest and shimmering out through her eyes. Her conscience is singing the praises of relic songs written on castle walls, hymns so lost to time that only a moment of clear gold could bring them to the present. Oh, my dear friend smoke, oh how I have missed you.
