cy monterrei / d4 / (fin)

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 16, 2024 1:57:31 GMT -5	cy monterrei / d4 / (fin) Jul 5, 2019 13:50:16 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 5, 2019 13:50:16 GMT -5 *c y m o n t e r r e i* district four eighteen photographer composed of moments
	Last Edit: Jul 7, 2019 6:39:36 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. 堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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3,094 POSTS

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last seen Apr 16, 2024 1:57:31 GMT -5

cy monterrei / d4 / (fin) Jul 5, 2019 23:56:04 GMT -5

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Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 5, 2019 23:56:04 GMT -5

like the onrushing tides and
the wolves deep in the forests
answered to the silver moon above,
so did the dark-silhouetted boy,
standing at the cusp of the sea.

but, things only answered
if they were called at first.

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2019 0:08:26 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
Graphics

3,094 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Apr 16, 2024 1:57:31 GMT -5

cy monterrei / d4 / (fin) Jul 6, 2019 1:52:09 GMT -5

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Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 6, 2019 1:52:09 GMT -5

i was listening to the ocean
i saw a face in the sand
but when i picked it, up
then it vanished away from my hand

The waves, crashing over the heavy stones and the driftwood, sang a melody he found himself lulled by. It was gentle as always, in the way that most melodies from the sea were, but tonight, there was a new element to it, an element of sharpness, the salt stinging the pores on his cheeks, the tides that rose up onto the low cliff he stood on soaking the tip of his shoes. It felt as if it was greeting Cy, the water sentient and the waves too, speaking through a tongue made from tides and seashells. “I missed you too,” he whispered to the purring blue, a hand outstretched as if to caress it. The sea answered him with a spray of saltwater, the sound it made larger than all he knew and larger than all he was, larger than life.

Fishing out his worn camera, he captured a picture ⁠— a moment. In it, the moonlight that broke into splinters over the rushing tides shone like powdered diamonds. He turned, skyward, and clicked the silver button of his camera again, its aperture aimed at the moon. In the picture, it was like a distant star, a chunk of white cement adhered to the patchwork of the indigo sky, but it radiated a feeling that Cy found himself enchanted by. That was what he looked for in his pictures: feelings, hidden sentiments that didn't show itself completely, only partially, in little fragments. Every picture held one if one fixated on them enough, a strand of sentimentality. Colors, fir trees, a silhouette of his mother cooking breakfast, his father's horn-rimmed glasses. They weren't the skin of the picture, but the bones and the veins hidden underneath, the things that supported it. In each moment he captured through the lens of his camera, there was a feeling, always.

Despite its frequent glitches and shenanigans, Cy could never part with the camera he held firmly in his hands. It was a birthday gift from his father, who asked the maids to wrap it in flimsy, maroon-colored paper at the dawn of his birthday and leave it in front of his doorstep, a pretty surprise for him to wake up to. At first glance, Cy was disappointed, seeing it not as a tool that captured moments so seamlessly, but as a mere box of metal and glass, a futile device, something trivial and complicated at the same time. The worst of all was, he knew it costed a good penny, looking at the gold accents around the lens to the heavy, tempered steel it was framed by. Coins tossed away for something that creaked metallic noises and captured things the same way he could with his own, bright eyes—

what a waste, he thought with a frown.

Cy only began to see the beauty of the machine, how it was made to savor transient moments and ephemeral times, after his father taught him how to use it. A click on the silver button, an adjustment for the aperture, the twisting of the focal lens. “Everything has a method, Cy,” he said, and light, like from newborn thunder, flashed before Cy's dark eyes as his father took a picture of him. The image rested upon his bedside table, a boy with unkempt hair and a grin like a crescent moon, the salt-scented wind billowing his shirt out as if it were a flag caught in it.

His father's words, that day, reflected his own self. Everything had a method in his world, from familial affairs to trade. Methodical and systemic, Mr. Monterrei treated everything as if they had an instruction manual he could simply read from. Sometimes, Cy had to admit, it worked. His trades flowered coins and riches, and always sold out at the end of the day. The fishermen beneath his wing, guided by his instructions and demonstrations, came back to bay with boatloads of seafood. Cy had followed him down to the docks once, but the stench of the boats — filled to their rustic brims with dead fishes and decay — made his stomach twist so much he had to leave. This worship of methods, of standard procedures, went beyond his work. It affected Cy, too. The callouses that grew on his palms were evidence, marks from holding a heavy blade tightly or pulling back the wiry arrow string harshly, the marks of a career in making. “We're just taking precautions, bud,” he answered Cy after he had asked the reason why. Even the reaping, to him, had a method and that was to prepare Cy for the massacre, if he were chosen.

Perhaps he revered the moon so much because it had no method to it. It was a mere pebble that encircled the earth, a child twirling around its mother, something faraway yet, somehow, whenever he sat on that cliff with the soft moss tickling the skin of his wrists, so near him at the same time. It was also something lonely, and castaway, with no one to accompany it but itself. Each day of the week, whenever he had ascertained that his parents were deep in slumber, he would tiptoe downstairs and leave the house. The path he had to embark on was lit by small fireflies during the summer, and by starlight amongst cold winters, made by sand, rock, and moss. At the very cusp of it was the cliff, an upheaval of stones from the sandy shore below that rose slightly skywards as if it were looking at the moon too. He would sit there, with legs pulled to his chest and arms wrapped around them, and stare, skywards.

Then, the moon would try to speak to him, through the orchestra of the tides, through an ache underneath his skin, or through its silvery light. It said, delicately, “come home.”

but now take me home
take me home where i belong
i got no other place to go
but now take me home

lyrics : aurora ⁠— runaway

Last Edit: Jul 7, 2019 6:39:14 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Graphics 3,094 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Apr 16, 2024 1:57:31 GMT -5	cy monterrei / d4 / (fin) Jul 7, 2019 6:40:12 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 7, 2019 6:40:12 GMT -5 this bio was lunatic, hehe. fin x. ripred_bot
	Last Edit: Jul 7, 2019 6:40:31 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. 堕落天使

gamemaker 💀 hades lochlan Administrator 7,690 POSTS Member is Online — 🥀 —	cy monterrei / d4 / (fin) Jul 7, 2019 10:38:37 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by gamemaker 💀 hades lochlan on Jul 7, 2019 10:38:37 GMT -5 this was beautiful!!
	^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}