… COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS (!)
B—ecause when you have someone who loves you, for you (all of your fucked up bits, YOUR SHAKING HANDS), it is too easy to push them away. Instead of PUSHING (stop pushing) (stop) (pushing), hold them. Carry them in your head if there is room. If you are fucked (it is O.K. to be), think of it like this:
They are a microscopic particle (they are not nothing) (make sure they know they are something)in some astounding, complex world. Knowing this, you should carry them in the palm of your hand. It is O.K. to be vulnerable. They know this because you are not evil like all the others. No, not like the one boy who said he would never but did it anyway while you were not able to see the stars. This is not a bad thing. I promise.
In your palm, their head on your heart line, you need them tight in your grasp (not too sudden, do not let them whisk through the spaces of your fingers) (unless they want to) because they are, too, afraid. Remind yourself that it is O.K. to be their heroin. It is not a bad thing. Promise yourself.
The world is big. It is easy to get lost.
Like every night, Yub was stuck out during the night partying. Except for this time, it wasn’t out in the streets of Hongdae. Neither was it in Gangnam. It was merely in the place of a close friend of hers, full house, music blasting and drunk beings all over the place. It was a common sight to see among her group of friends. More specifically for Yoobin, but the stories that tie to that is a unnecessary.
As usual, she let the alcohol fill her system, allowing her to grow drunk as her sense of touch grew fuzzy. Her steps were wobbly and her speech slurred, but that didn’t stop her from having a good time in her life. Ready for a refill in the infamous red plastic cup, she spotted a man alone. Though she didn’t think much of it, she continued to get a refill of the owners special concoction of drinks, Yoobin laughed, unsure if she wanted the strangers attention.
His silence made her curiosity grow. In such a loud atmosphere, there was absolutely no reason for someone to be as quiet as this man was. And the mere fact that no one had approached this being piqued her interest even more. Hell, she wasn’t sure if this man had even originally planned to come here in the first place. Slowly scooting over to the man beside her, Yoobin turns around and presses the small of her back onto the counter, looking up at the stranger. “Did you just randomly show up here?”
— If he wants to feel anything tonight, weed’s gonna do it. It takes excessive amounts of alcohol for him to feel even the slightest buzz and he’s not going to be that one guy that hoards all the drinks. Lucky for him, he was offered a drag because he would have never had the audacity to ask. He’s not the type to ask others for favours and never has been. Point is, he hasn’t been alone all night. He’s held a decent conversation with a few about his living in Canada and how Canadians certainly are nice folk while passing around a joint. They also had him speak English for them. ‘Recite one of his favourite English poems. A messy-haired girl said his accent was alluring. He reddened.
But he’s away from them now, left alone to his plethora of meaningless thoughts. He’s leaning over the kitchen counter, accompanied by a passed-out boy with the words “trash” scribbled over his forehead in black ink. Bony elbows press into the gold and brown speckled granite as he peers out the window, the light from the moon pleasantly illuminating the grass, fountain, and groomed shrubbery. He’s probably under-dressed for the occasion once again, being clad in a loose fitting band tee (he lost his sweater) and pants that are probably too small. Yeah, definitely. You can see his ankles. Nonetheless, he’s comfortable like this. Comfortable with the quietness. With the looking out the window.
That’s when he sees a small animal scurry across the yard. A squirrel. What makes a squirrel, a squirrel? How did their teeth evolve to serve the function of shaving down acorns? He needs to know, so he finds a scrap of paper and jots RESEARCH LATER down with an instrument that appears to leak the same ink as used on the drunk boy. His hand trembles as usual as he carefully prints the letters, which he’ll later find out are highly untranslatable and fail to make sense anyway because he didn’t write anything else but RESEARCH LATER. Research what? Abel’s the type of boy who likes to know the complexities of things. If you’re thrown off by his mental wiring and hang around him long enough, you’ll realize that him under-the-influence is ten times worse than him when he’s sober.
The thrum of live music. Laughter. Glasses clinking upon tabletops. Such was the cadence of a bar and Lee Taemin’s day to day life ever since he moved to South Korea. A rag in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other, he was talking animatedly with one of the customers and pouring her desired drink. Their conversation was meaningless, one he would forget moments later when he returned to polishing the wooden top of the bar but until then the mischief in his eyes and laughter in his voice remained. It was a part of the job anyway, being friendly with the patrons and interacting with whomever shuffled in and sunk into one of the stools before him, a pseudo forming of ties that broke as easily as they were formed. As she sashayed away, he let the topic fall into the recesses of his memory and moved on to talk with another customer.
It was as he began to pour a set of shots, clear liquid marking them of the vodka variety, that someone new stepped in. Curly dark brown hair atop his head and near amber eyes adorning his face, he was stunningly attractive, quickly acquiring some of the female patron’s attention. Sauntering up toward the bar and collapsing into a seat, he signaled that he wanted to order, prompting Taemin to nod that he saw him. Handing one of the waitresses a tray with drinks once he finished making what was requested — she giggled at him when their hands brushed and he bit back a sigh of annoyance — he approached the male and leaned on the countertop, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
"What can I get you this evening?"
— He’s definitely not unaware of the female crowd’s lingering eyes roving up and down his lanky form, drinking in the sight of his worn-out sneakers, (hideous) mustard-coloured sweater and his naturally tousled locks. He tries to tell himself that they’re looking at him with confusion because perhaps he’s considered under dressed or he looks fresh from a seventies film, not that they’re looking at him with a glint of fascination and wonder rattling their soul. He tends to assume the best of people, but in regards to how they perceive him—he’d rather not romanticize himself. A blonde girl once told him that he comes off as a mysterious, chain-smoking boy from a novel that the air-headed protagonist ends up falling in love with, believing they can “change” him for the better and “open him up”. In her conclusion, he falls in love with the them, too, but is too self-destructive to maintain a relationship and ends up dying of lung cancer. He likes to pretend that’s not an actual thing she’s said.
He takes a seat next to a stranger, deep in conversation about——he listens——some company’s revenue increasing rather rapidly over the span of two years. Oh, but now he feels bad about eavesdropping. In this moment he traces a blunt, calloused finger tip along the surface of the wood counter top. Stained and smooth. It’s tigerwood—the stripes tell him that much. ‘Pity they had to go and destroy a natural habitat for something so menial. Though, he has to admit, it is aesthetically appealing. Well, maybe not for the common nature enthusiast. He could go on forever zeroing in on the minor details of his surroundings, but that’s not what he came here to do.
Obstructing his vision. That’s all his hair’s good for. To gain some sort of recognition from the bartender, he flicks the dark curls from his eyes and makes a point to hold eye contact for a moment or two. Beneath the warm-hued spillage of light, the freckles spotting the bridge of his nose and the sun-kissed tops of his cheeks couldn’t be more noticeable. …As well as the dark discolouration pooling beneath his eyes, aiding in their mission of making him look as fatigued and bleak as possible—making him look like some sickly, hospital bed frequenter. His entire appearance is contradictory. Why does his skin look so dewy? Is he dying, or not? If the way his hands tremble so frequently—or, even the way he hunches over the bar stool with barely any meat clinging to his bones doesn’t give it away, I don’t know what will.
// oh, gosh. haha. it was around four months, I believe. but even back then I was going through a dry spell inspiration-wise so he wasn’t around as often. I didn’t think he was that admired! i’ll try and be as active as possible and write to the best of my ability so I don’t disappoint you. :’) much love.
// wow! i’m very touched right now! thank you for admiring this lanky little orphan—it fuels my inspiration to exercise him more often. ♥
[/going to assume he’s waving at him as a customer at his parent’s restaurant because the location was not specified]
— The orphan’s etching blue pen ink into a folded white napkin when the other makes an appearance, door chiming an octave above the low murmur of 60’s rock ‘n’ roll. A rather detailed sea anemone is what leaks out the ball-point tip, if you’re wondering.
He tears his gaze away from his work upon the noise, a subtle flick of his head causing unruly locks to clear his line of sight. He places the instrument upon the surface of the counter top neatly, lining it up with the napkin. It isn’t until then he speaks, golden-flecked eyes locking onto the strangers, his voice low, raspy (he’s been smoking too much, too early)—
“Life is oblivion erupting, for a brief moment, into nonoblivion in order so that oblivion may proclaim: ‘I am’. The assumption being, of course, that living things are aware enough to make such a proclamation. Let us suppose that they are. Let us suppose that they are, to a degree, self-aware.This makes for the possibility of life recognizing itself, yes, but not as oblivion, only as life.
[Reviving an old account. Looking for serious roleplayers only.]
In order for life to recognize itself as a fleeting pulse of oblivion, self-awareness must be refined into pure awareness, which is observation unimpaired by either ego or preconceptions.”
i fucking love this character like he’s my child but i’m going to have to put him on an indefinite hiatus — i have toooo much going on. not literally, but i have other accounts to take care of and this one’s inspiration juices are running very, very low. he’s not gone for ever, i don’t think. just for — i don’t know, a long time, maybe. sorry to those i was writing with.