Kumiko Reverie // D11 // FIN

. kumiko reverie ♕ 17 ♕ district 11 .

you are timeless.

you are one in trillions across a landscape of quiet darkness. you burn so bright, or flicker so dim, because when the voice is stolen out of your lungs you channel it in the glow that you give off for when the dwellers of the earth turn in, and when the dwellers of the sky come out. you, just like the rest of them, have a story, and when you can no longer tell it in physical form, this is how you share it to the living as the dead.

you don't die. you live on here, in the moon's army of light that brings the overhead pool of ebony to life, and constellations in the eyes of the sky people.

you are timeless.

here you are to be used by no one, but loved by everyone. you all sing in a twinkling symphony, a different composition every night--it is music to the sightseers, and not to the sound-listeners.

no matter how morally correct or corrupt you are, there lurks inside each individual their own vacuum of blackness. the only sound is silence, and the only company is the one of yourself. some choose to let it be seen, while others bury it beneath their strong flames of soul.

and those that struggle to disclose it, those that struggle to resolve it, those that struggle to fill it with specks of purity by the time they are banished from the realm of the earth inhabitants, they become the spots of nirvana themselves. they finally pour it all out in the way they help make the otherwise barren landscape glitter and animate right before the gazes of the interested.

no matter how morally correct or corrupt you are, you will find that you are what conquers the void of emptiness. you will find that you are understood by the watchers of the above. you will find that you are loved, and never forgotten.

your name may be--but never your existence. it lives on here, in this galactic kingdom full of idealizers.

it is this that i have come to believe, a series of concoctions formulated of my own invention with the assistance of what this global empire possesses for the senses to tingle toward, such as posies of carnations and dashes of cinnamon in baked goods, to cope with the trying circumstances that desecrate such an otherwise breathtaking domain teeming with the potential to be a sanctuary of euphoria for the masses.

it is an escape from witnessing the damnation of even the most gentle spirits in an annual tradition of horror and homicide, the glints of their regards fading into emptiness as silver clashes with fragile bodies and leaves crimson fissures in otherwise smooth frames woven with silk.

you see it time and time and time again, there is no limit to the limit of their days to breathe.

i still remember the day pearl millison fell, and last year marked the event that teddy ursa with the soft-spoken demeanor came home and brought district six prestige after the longest of strikes on clocks and watches, but emberly lowe with the flower crowns and dandy gordon with the gold-plated heart did not.

they fall like droplets of precipitation on the pavement in spring days, and though there is a soothing quality to the rain there is never a time here at home and i'm sure in the rest of the districts that we don't go without it.

it aches me, it threatens to break me like it has been doing to everyone else, we are glass people and they are submitting to the cracks that shake them, they do not mind exploding into shards like their deepest desires.

but yet, i will myself to not.

i cannot, i must not, i will not.

the romanticizers of the planetary kingdom have the ability to adapt to its challenges with the imagination, and i am one of them--but these glass people of the soil, the vice versa, can barely be said, for once your feet are too far grounded onto the rocky terrain, you can never ascend yourself into the heavens again.

clipped wings and shattered dreams, but not mine.

i glide across the gloom of the day and among the orchestra of the night. i envision anything, many things, all of the things, everything. tendrils of space are in artistic waves behind my head and flailing across my vision; eyes alike are closed and transform what consumes us to what accompanies us with the choir of lasting legacies; a doll's porcelain cracks and breaks into smooth layers grazed by the surrounding currents with every trip upward; dainty, small, hand-painted features come to close in serenity as it soars through the firmament.

this brings about fantasies, fantasies thought and expressed in the land of bleak pragmatism. strokes of creativity, scents of decadence, script of wonder and stories of beauty, i engage in them when leisure is scrawled across the vault of my mentality with the word "agenda" bleeding into it like paint and ink; fruit preserves and concepts for the brain to explore with its immense power. it is this world's silver lining where it can collide with the other and be shared with the non-believers who are still able to be converted into joining this utopian paradise.

two molecular clouds that birthed this flightless star and its philosophy, until the life contained within it finally burns out and its essence is released into the sunscape: a prime example of transition from this plane to the other. lost in the smell of cherry, potatoes, and carrots to distract themselves from the surroundings outside the restaurant and bakery they own and operate with me alongside them, i would consistently display to them my ideas and share my thoughts--but the aroma of the food they concerned themselves with were far too potent to overcome.

mother kept focusing on the wooden spoon and the pot with its contents.

father continued to watch the oven clouded with the perfume of apples and spices.

too caught up in the work as their distraction from the cruelty we are subject under, so i told them they were timeless.

i showed them the atmosphere that fell upon the heads of those such as myself after dark, and it wasn't too long until they uplifted themselves into the air as well and struggled with the will to return to level ground. before were creases of concern and looks of despondency, but nowadays i see them do their work with teeth as vibrant as the celestial bodies of the treasured deceased, with crescent moon sights that would mirror my own from whenever i explored high altitudes.

they put more of their hearts into the food that they crafted, and soon so did i from the result of their influence.

slowly did the sphere of elysium become more and more populated over the countless passing of arrows as informing those around me of what it has to offer convinced friends, schoolmates, acquaintances, and strangers alike to join the family of reverie, hand-in-hand, in this our blessed community of bliss.

from three, to a circle of a connection.

it all started with them, and it will continue with me.

my deepest desire will never smash into reflective pieces, for it is this that it solely consists of--a pursuit to keep recruiting those who can still be taught to take wing into our sacred retreat of notions, tucked within the stars of immortality that we so admire.

and so, just like them, you are timeless. you do not belong in any year, any decade, any century--you belong in the now, and you always will. whether you have yet to learn to fly, whether you do, and whether your ability to be aerial marks the endless elevations as your home for the rest of eternity, you are forever despite what the words of other thinkers say.

i am timeless.

i am the bridge between terra firma and empyrean, no matter what the views of anyone and everyone are.