D4// Jörge Libertine

Wonder
Career Tribute

675 POSTS
Pronouns: they/he
last seen Aug 11, 2023 10:06:03 GMT -5

everything is zoe's tbh.

D4// Jörge Libertine May 20, 2012 15:55:08 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on May 20, 2012 15:55:08 GMT -5

Name: Jörge Libertine
Age: 15
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 4
Appearance:

CESAR CASIER

Personality:

THE WORLD I WONDER WHAT THE BIG GRAND WORLD IS LIKE. YOUR OPINION? IT'S WRONG. WHAT? WHAT'D YOU SAY? I WASN'T PAYING ATTENTION. OH WINDOWS. SSSSSS LIKE A SERPENT. I'M NOT A BAD GUY, I JUST LIKE TO DO BETTER

History:

I'LL GET THERE UGH

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

"A wanderlust, Jörge aspires to travel all around the world. He doesn't care if his dreams are quite literally too big for Panem, he is determined to see what there is beyond the great beyond outside of District Four. He knows the land on the other side of the fence must lead to forests and fields... but the ocean could go anywhere and he's certain that if he could find a way to conquer and tame that infinite expanse of water, then he could wrap his arms around the earth itself, until one hand clasped the other again. The idea of "impossible" means very little to a boy this stubborn; once a thought finds its way into his head, the only impossible thing is another person's attempt to shoo it away. It's a difficult feat to sway or move Jörge, who believes that once a decision is made, there's no going back. All things must be as circular as the earth itself, so if the path he's on is the wrong one, he'll just have to keep going until it becomes right again."

Last Edit: Jun 30, 2012 14:30:02 GMT -5 by Wonder

peri-snot styler

Wonder
Career Tribute

675 POSTS
Pronouns: they/he
last seen Aug 11, 2023 10:06:03 GMT -5

everything is zoe's tbh.

D4// Jörge Libertine May 20, 2012 16:08:09 GMT -5

Post by Wonder on May 20, 2012 16:08:09 GMT -5

THE BOY WHO SAW THE WORLD~

[DBD2BF] [B2CCDD] [729E9A]

[/size]

~THE SERPENT

* * *

[/COLOR]

This is a place where I don't feel alone

[/center][/size]

(name) - (jörge bion libertine)
(age) - (fifteen)
(genitalia) - (testicles)
(home sweet home) - (district four)
(sexuality) - (who cares)

[/size]

This is a place where I feel at home

[/center][/size]

* * *

[/COLOR]

/ a p p e a r a n c e /

Out in the garden where we planted the seeds
There is a tree that's old as me

I’m nothing but a crystal prism.

Books were meant to be judged by their covers, or else they would not be there. The content was nothing but an after affect,

[/size] a consequence of the cover. Many a time have I traced worn down book binds with fingertips looking at everything the outside had to offer, what mysteries it held unbeknownst to my sunken eyes. Never judge a book by a cover. The lies have never passed my lips, never been contributed in conversations amongst my siblings. A lie. That’s all it really was, and the Libertine’s were good liars. The whole premise seems ever so simple, pick unknowingly, sink your line into the vast blue waters and pull out wonders that dance across the sky. But, why take the risk in something bad when presented with the opportunity of a sneak peak?[/COLOR] A cover. The first impression of what you’ll ever see, ever get, right there[/COLOR] and in living colour, the content without the content.[/SIZE][/color]

Trickery is at the core of all human beings. A warm bright light snickering and twisting, turning, leaping,[/COLOR] at every statement finding ways to bend itself into the wills of ~~useless~~ weak people. Trickery. Sure, it takes many forms, a small prank, hidden toys, stolen props, but it was human appearance in which trickery took its most sincere, evil form. The human cover to a book that’s constantly scribbling words into dirty forgotten notebooks. A cover bending to the ideas of society as we change, change with the ideas of what’s good, what’s bad, what’s different. I’m different they say. Who’s to say what’s good, what’s bad, what’s different. Who’s to say I’m different.

I remember one day walking down the pawn shop aisles and falling (not literally)[/COLOR] upon a crystal prism. Covered in dust and buried in piles of other useless crap, an unexplainable urge to grab and take and keep and cherish ripped my heart to shreds as my large rough hands grabbed the seemingly fragile glass. But that was the thing about crystal, no matter how hard I squeezed, feeling a burn sear through my hands, it would not crack. Stumbling over large clumsy feet to the dirty, cracked windowsill, I watched, watched as the blinding white sunlight turned into everything, reds, yellows, bursting at the seams with colour and radiance.

Staring blankly on the dusty uncomfortable window sill, my dull blue eyes still waiting to catch the effects of the prism stare constantly for hours on end. Sometimes when someone’s bothered to clean (next to never) the panes of glass like to reflect back at me, it is then I realize how bad I need to be crystal. Bleach seems to have painted my skin as the paleness of a ghost wraps every inch of visible skin, I am a ghost, I am the blinding white light. I have to squint to see my pale blonde eyebrows hidden by my skin; I’m but a ghost in the corner, hidden away from the world. I wish to be hidden, but the window pane always seems to stare, a reflection I could never get rid of.

Lips as thin as a razor blade ready to cut you at any moment with words so harsh and unbelievable, I’ve never been a fan of the world around me. Nose still slightly leaning to the left from a particularly bad fight, I am unattractive. The only blessing I can think of is the fact that facial hair has never really grasped my face ever, and even if it did my razor lips would be there all along, serving as a warning to stay away from the beast, from the boy who was different. The boy who always has a look of thought or sadness, why can’t I escape, how do I leave? Why do they call me different?

I wait to become a prism; I keep up my human cover. A cover to look good, to people see me look good. A fake white grin plastered on with each passing customer to keep them safe you are safe here, i am not. Teased hair beyond the point that it’ll ever be real, ~~but who is really ever real~~ flipped to the left, mostly brown but colours were not my thing yet, I am still nothing but a light. The wavy lines from years of attempting to slip away in the ocean grease my ~~brown~~ hair. I am unappealing.

I try and become a rainbow all the time through clothing, colour colour colour,[/color] one day I will burst and it will all make sense but until then I must fill my frame with bursts of energy and the bizarre. We were known for the bizarre, our family. Clashing, all the time, I pick whatever I want, random, and throw it together and hope it looks good, hope it looks reasonable. Often enough, I steal the clothes from the girls which easily fits my skinny and short frame, I wear whatever. I am whatever. I am different. A smile, a flash of colour, a boy dying on the inside. It’s all about the cover and not the content. At least, not until I become something great.
[/size][/blockquote][/color]

* * *

[/COLOR]

\ p e r s o n a l i t y \

Branches were sewn by the color of green
Ground had arose and passed its knees

I wish I could draw a map of the world.

[/size]

But that had never been an option, not much really was an option these days. They say that the world used to be huge, spreading out farther than the oceans that lined the District. At least that's what I've been told. The big world stolen away from my eyes, away from the people who want to see, live, experience things that are bigger than them. Maybe it's just an extreme case of wanting to escape the overbearing expectations of the people around me, family, peacekeepers, myself. Escape from the boy who sits lonely and endlessly on a windowsill. Escape, the word is so simple, so easy yet packed with so much incredible impossible meanings. Escape, a thing I'll never be able to do.

There's probably a place out there that's so much better than the dusty, dull District which reeks of the fish guts and labor. The water filled District. Day after day spent watching the crashing shore line waiting for the tide to come in so strong it'd slip me away under it's ferocious wrath. Water seemed like such an appealing way to go, to slip under the surface and feel ever so weightless, floating through, sifting through an endless blue until you fall limp, suffocating on your very own weightlessness. If only I could drown, but alas I float through the water as if I were nothing but a sea serpent tearing through the crashing waves and torrential current. The sea is the only place I could see there being anything better, bigger, more special than the windowsill that I sit on so much that the velvet pillow laying flat across it has an indent so clear as to where I always sit, watching.

I could never paint, or draw, or anything of the sorts. That's why I'll never be able to draw the world, though I'd love to paint islands and discover new lands each and every day. The question has never been anything but how, how would I get there, how would I find it, how would I track the things I discovered once I got there? Who knows how far out the water goes, if there is even anything out there? The Capitol would probably know, but that's not exactly information that lies within my desperate reach. I am nothing but a useless boy, waiting to find what's out there at sea. But the water's too deep, even for a serpent on the water. The trip is too far, even for a boy who sits watching the horizon for hours on end. Too deep, too far, too scary, too unknown. What would be out there in the big grand world, why travel so far when I could stay safe in the place I hate to call home, and watch the sun set and the sun rise each and everyday, why do anything of the sorts? Why escape? I could never paint, or draw, so never will a blank map fill itself with colours and unknown lands. Never will a paper explode with greens and blues and yellows and greys, and who knows what other colours might be found out there? Terrific greys, a crimson red? Who's to say? The world is vast they say, then why can't I see?

Out there, is where I'd like to be, but that's never been an option despite what I like to convince myself to believe. Chase your dreams is only relevant to those who own luxuries and power, and not work under a roof selling with no questions asked. No questions why a woman, dark haired full of grease and smelling of boos and cigarettes turns up with a ring clearly beyond her price limit. It was my mother's, she says. The guilt building with every passing second in her eyes, tear stains covering her ratted clothes. No questions asked. No one ever asked questions in a family filled with the bizarre, and the unwanted. The girl who trapped souls in pictures, the girl who made deadly deals, the girl who constantly drowned, and the boy who sat on the windowsill tracing his fingers along dirty broken pieces of parchment planning a route to escape the confines of the shop in which he spends all his days.

I love my family, I do, I do. They are bizarre and out there. Out there, where I'd like to be. I love my siblings which each of their quirks because god knows I carry my own, I watch them to, as I watch the horizons, make sure they're safe and sound and not dealing with those who are dangerous. There are a lot of dangerous people that come to the shop. They like to make deals, don't we all like to make deals? Kraken plays more the part of caretaker, if there's a problem, he takes care of it. With what methods, I'll never know. But I'd like to think that I help out, I'd like to think that should some come in and take the neck of my sister, I'll be the one that'll whack them on the back of the head and laugh as they fall down to the ground, I can protect, I know I can.

People tend to use un-words to describe me: unfocused, unattractive. It's almost as if I'm one big no to the world, one secret to lock away in the cellar, which is completely and utterly understandable. I'm a hidden secret that stays ever so still, a boy who looks beyond what's happening right in front of him. I don't do much, I don't protect the girls or boys, I don't even count the values of each item that comes in, I just stare and stock. Stock the shelves full of whatever needs to be there, a necklace, a ring, a bunch of gold. I guess I'm trustworthy when it comes to lining the shelves with items, because all I ever take are items that are have no value. A prism, a map, things that would never sell regardless of who came in. I am nothing, an un. A boy who sits and stares blankly waiting for my ride to come and take my away. But somehow I doubt it will ever come, and nothing saddens me more.[/blockquote][/size][/color]

* * *

[/COLOR]

[ h i s t o r y ]

When the gusts came around to blow me down
I held on as tightly as you held onto me

They say I was born with two glass windows shrouding my tiny eyes.

Nobody was ever present in my eyes, ever, since they day I slithered so quickly and unexpectedly out of the womb, I was a surprise guest to a family that’s table was already large enough (but would quickly become even larger.) Premature, a month and a half too early to have made a presence, and yet I wanted to escape I suppose. (I’ve always wanted to escape from the day I was born.)

At one, I learned to crawl and claw at the confines that kept me in the wooden walls of the Libertine home. Clawing at the cradle from which I stared helplessly out the dirty glass window that poked light in every which corner and watched as darkness shrouded those very same corners come nightfall. Never crying, a baby boy who just watched through the glass sheet eyes, I was not normal, but who really is?

At four, I uttered my first word from pursed lips. A late bloomer to speak, most children said a word a nine months, some even six, but it took me four whole years of staring at the confines of my room and measuring how far the sun would reach up my wall before I slipped out a sound from my lips. My mother, a siren and image of beauty, took me to watch the ocean while cradling and bouncing me on her hip. The waves crashed and bobbed but it was the drowning sun that caught my eye as the reds and purples and oranges screamed as it fell, I cried and muttered, “Wow.”

My childhood was nothing spectacular. I watched the fishermen each morning as they threw themselves into the rocky waters as the sun saluted them good morning, wishing them a good day. I watched the other kids skin their knees and play amongst the grass, picking it piece by piece and weaving grass bracelets. I watched. I watched as the boy in blue liked the girl in green whose eyes fell for the boy who couldn’t even lift a five pound book without toppling over. It was the little things that caught my eye each and every day that kept me silent throughout my childhood. I watched.

I watched and took note of the quirks and troubles of my siblings. Kipling and his values, and his values on life, and his values on the items that lined the shop. Penelope with her dreams that rattled her so much resulting in screams echoing throughout the house. Ursula with her deals. And even Nessie whose camera captured souls, or so she says.

I have a notebook, you see. And in it I like to write letters, and notes, and scribbles of everyday life, and in it are all the things I've observed. How the sun sets in a particular way I’ve never seen before with a full red sky. Every single date that’s ever been important has been recorded in leather bindings hidden away under loose floorboards in the room I always used to try and escape.

October 14th of the 58th Hunger Games. Kipling walked in on me staring through the crystal prism. The prism I’ve come to appreciate the colours from and the world doesn’t look so much like a white blankness so much as a rainbow, or a new hope. I wasn’t reaped in my first year. So I sit in the window staring out at the ocean through a six sided prism that I’ve come to call my own property even though I found it on the shelves. Kipling knew it wasn’t mine. The young boy of only nine took one look in my hand and I could see the math processing through his brain with speed. “Not worth it.” He left without a second glance. Whether getting me in trouble, pounded to the grime filled ground, wasn’t worth it, or the shards of glass that’d become my best friend wasn’t worth so much as a penny should another brute come crashing through the door looking to buy something valuable. I’m not valuable, neither is the prism. I’m fine with that.

That was one of my favourite entries, memories. The prism was still a secret hidden under the pillow that I’m not reluctant to call home – it’s the place I’m always welcome. The crumpled pages are used and scribbled upon, but every so often I’ll flip through them like memories. But yet, I always start back in my first black leather bound journal. The first entry:

January 26th of the 57th Hunger Games. Hello there, I don’t know what to refer to you as. But, this is my way of talking, of communicating; I don’t like to talk really. I’m hoping one day that I’ll stumble upon a reason to speak, to really speak, and maybe then I won’t need to write anymore. I can just stare out my window in peace and know that something out there is making me happy.

Once upon a time, I found that happy. The happiest month of my life happened last year. It was completely illegal, completely wrong, and yet as I flip through pages of my life that have slowly amounted into more and more books – I’m enthralled by the one particular month of May.

May 2nd of the 60th Hunger Games. I was staring out the window watching the moon shine across the silky water, illuminating the waves, making the ocean ever alluring and attractive. At first I didn’t believe it – a ghost, an apparition lit gently by the silver moon amongst the growing blades of grass. Not dead, simply sleeping. A porcelain doll lying smoothly across the grass, with a face so full of worry and torment yet still it was hypnotizing to watch. Feet slowly shuffling across the creaking floorboards, I ran as fast as I could out the door. I watched. Nothing new, I watched as his chest rose with every twitch of the nose and watched as it fell with a harsh exhale from his thin lips. Porcelain white with the moon illuminating his figure, a man, clearly not from the shores that had trapped me in for fourteen whole years, a man who belonged somewhere else and held such an incredible something around him slept in front of me. I watched the way his body sank into the ground, and the curves that he held unlike anything I’d ever taken notice of. He was different, just the air around him, a stranger in a strange land, and nothing more could please me.

I sat for hours watched his long black eyelashes flicker with every second of uncomfortable sleep. I watched him toss and turn and curl into a ball. And most importantly, as he arose quickly and frantically, I offered him shelter in the labyrinth in our basement – keeping him safe, my porcelain doll from far far away.

The beginning to a forbidden story. Little snippits of, “he smiled.” Or “he thanked me as I gave him food” shroud the next three days of my journal.

May 5th of the 60th Hunger Games. Edgar and I talked today. He intends on staying for one more week. Seven days of harsh whispers in the cobblestone confines of my basement – no Libertine has yet to find him and I still hold hope that it’s a secret, like one of the many held in these walls, that won’t get out – not a story that will ever be told in the record books or story books – never told even in my death, or his. A wanderer, he ran away and ran to me, to district 4. He says he’s searching – searching for a way to find a home, his husband died he said, I didn’t understand.

Adam explained that in some places – some people – they like guys, guys like guys and girls like girls and it seems all so much like a foreign concept. I’ve never seen a boy hold a boys hand down the fishing market streets, and seen a girl kiss a girl on the cheek by the shore. I’ve seen plenty of boys and girls steal kisses and hold hands – but the same gender, it all seems so weird and bizarre. I tell Adam this, that I’ve never seen a boy with a boy, and he tells me that maybe someday I will.

Foreign, the time now seem so foreign and bizarre, and like a million years ago, even though it hasn’t been that long. It’s like a whole different person reads through the pages.

May 6th of the 60th Hunger Games. Today was different, I feel different. I hurt in a way I never thought possible and yet I feel like I see so much for the first time. Whilst taking Adam what little food to spare – I felt weird. I walked in on him with no shirt grasping at his body and for the first time since I found him, I found myself watching the curves of his body and how they move and how each breath comes in and out, and I feel drawn. Drawn closer like a magnet pulled to him in the way he described to me only yesterday – a boy meets boy type of way and it’s weird and bizarre – I’ve never felt any way like this before.

And he sees this, he sees and watches as I concentrate on the sweat running down him, and his rapid breathing (clearly he’d been running or something) He watches as I’d watched for so many years and I tell him that – the boy thing – and he only stares back. Like the shadows slinking up my baby walls at sunrise, he slides over to me and in a moment so quick, so unreal, I feel his padded lips push up to mine and felt the glass shatter in my eyes. And then I feel his hands -

I quickly shut the journal – a memory too real to bring up by simple flipping through pages – and yet a memory that wants to be read and experienced over and over again as all literature does, though I’d seldom call my little black books literature.

May 9th of the 60th Hunger Games. Adam leaves in three days. I’ve barely spoken a word to him since – that night – that night where I became different in more ways than one. I still bring him food every morning, mid-day and evening, mostly my shares these days, sometimes I don’t like to eat and getting extra portions isn’t necessarily easy in a family so large, so I sacrifice. We haven’t talked, since that night. It feels so wrong, he’s thirty and I’m fourteen and it was a night that shouldn’t have happened. Yet every visit, I watch, a new detail every time, the way his eyebrows twist in a worried, guilty matter each time I walk through the door, and the way his hair curls at the tips or how his hair isn’t quite black but isn’t quite brown either – it’s just in the middle. And I told him, tonight that I was having those feelings – those boy on boy feelings a lot because instead of my mind being out there in the world I want to explore it was in the basement, with him. And I ran up to him, and did to him what he did to me two nights earlier.

And then finally –

May 12th of the 60th Hunger Games. Adam left.

Only two words were scrawled across that page, though there was so much meaning hidden behind them and so many words that could have been said – but weren’t. I could have wrote how I was betrayed and left alone to slowly get those glass plates covering my eyes again or how I was in love and was abandoned. Yet, what was I supposed to expect, he said seven days and that’s what it was. Seven days. I could have written across the tear stained page but simply two words scrawled across that page and the glass came back and I sat at the window sill – as usual. The same as always.[/blockquote][/color][/size]

* * *

[/COLOR]

And I built a home,
for you, for me.
Until it disappeared,
from you, from me.
And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust.

[/color]

Wonder's Characters
Cesar Casier
To Build a Home by Cinematic Orchestra
<img src="http://i41.tinypic.com/16h2ibt.png">

Last Edit: Jun 30, 2012 14:16:29 GMT -5 by Wonder

peri-snot styler

Wonder Career Tribute 675 POSTS Pronouns: they/he last seen Aug 11, 2023 10:06:03 GMT -5 everything is zoe's tbh.	D4// Jörge Libertine Jun 30, 2012 14:17:15 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Wonder on Jun 30, 2012 14:17:15 GMT -5 Finally done! ^^ Got lazy on the coding, mais il est fini! [/blockquote]
	peri-snot styler

Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] Retired Staff 6,346 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Nov 17, 2023 15:15:56 GMT -5 cozy, queer af	D4// Jörge Libertine Jun 30, 2012 14:22:17 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] on Jun 30, 2012 14:22:17 GMT -5 Accepted! [/size][/center]
	warehouse