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stagekiller · 5 years

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👶 ( whispers twins )

Meme

{ selectively accepting :/ }

Pitter-patter of muddy galoshes disrupts the room’s silence, dethroning the monotonous ‘ crackle , crackle ’ of scribbling.

Their dreary bedroom, furnished with a rusty bunker bed and a wooden toy box, lathered in scratches- REEKS of cigarette smoke; their mother’s nasty habit soaking into their star-patterned sheets. At one point in time there used to be a second box and toys scattered across the floor, but after Jerome recreated the ‘Samoan fire dance’ number with his wooden toy train, his toy box was permanently confiscated.

Beds are easy to tell apart; one has sheets scrunched up and tossed in the corner, covers dumped on the floor beside it and a variety of stains across its pillows, whilst the other is made without a wrinkle, with the pillows safely tucked away from dirt and dust under its cover. ‘Miah’s persistence to have the top bunker won, his argument being that, should Jerome’s bed wetting spree continue, the piss would soak into the mattress and drip on his head while he sleeps. Their mother would have let him have his way even if he hadn’t been as graphic. Jerome, on the other hand, only kept his mouth shut due to SHAME.

His brother knew how to get under his skin, after all.

It was a considerably sunny day, at least for Gotham’s standards. Few kids their age were being dragged around the circus. Haly’s founding families, Graysons and Lloyds, have their sprouts playing far apart from each other but rarely mingle with the ginger twins; perhaps their parents warn them of their antics, an infamy for which Jerome is largely responsible.

Rubber boots step on the edge of his bed, smearing mud onto the fabric. The stains will definitely earn him a beating, but then again, what doesn’t ? A ginger shrub peeks over the edge of ‘Miah’s bed, curious green eyes following soon after. His brother has made sure to retract the ladder up his bed, a desperate attempt to keep Jerome as far away as possible. Tender child heart doesn’t know how to interpret the action; the REJECTION plants a deep wound onto his soul, a bitter sorrow that quickly converts to anger every time Jeremiah turns away.

“ aren’t ‘ya bored yet ? ” Question comes in the form of an innocent, high pitched voice. Freckled cheeks pop as he flashes a grin - though only half of it is visible over the bed’s edge. When there’s no response at first - ‘Miah always goes for the silent treatment, knowing that Jerome can’t stand a minute of it - the smile quickly melts into a pout, and then his expression dissipates to a deadpan, gaze growing harsh.

Unlike his brother, who would be perfectly content wasting the sunlight on his bed, scribbling away on his pile of cardboard and papers - Jerome can’t understand what makes them so SPECIAL ! - he wants to get out and play. But it often happens that Lila won’t let him wander around by himself, asking Jeremiah to babysit him - as if he needs someone to watch over him. Considering that he could easily sneak out by himself, perhaps that’s just the excuse he uses to justify asking his brother to come along.

It surely can’t be because he wants Jeremiah’s company.

“ hey ! i asked, aren’t ‘ya bored ! ” For a child his age, Jerome’s voice held a vibrant growl that screamed ‘ evil ’. His outbursts were frequent, but always short lived. And as per usual, he calmed down within seconds of yelling and slamming his hand against the edge of his twin’s bed. A deep sigh - quite the dramatic one - and he’s back to rolling his eyes and holding a playful tone. “ anyway, I’m bored. quit scratchin’ those stupid papers and let’s go feed the monkeys ! ” By ‘ feed ’, Jerome most likely meant ‘ throw food at rather aggressively ’ . He was smart enough to come up with an euphemism, but the glint in his eye betrayed the intention either way.

#// born tsundere: a novel by jerome #{ goldcnblood }#The utter helplessness of childhood || {Kid!Verse}

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sm0lbeanisbored · 6 years

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“If we are to call suicide every self-taken way out of the world, then even the Platonic pursuit of knowledge, involving as it does the separation of reason from passion and appetite, is suicidal ... as are, of course, the search for ecstatic states, and longings for mystical union. It is the habit of such examinations to mess up these matters as if they were so many paints whose purpose was purely to give pleasure to the fingers.“ (8)

Poetry is cathartic only for the unserious, for in front of the rush of expressive need stands the barrier of form, and when the hurdler's scissored legs and outstretched arms carry him over the bars, the limp in his life, the headache in his heart, the emptiness he's full of, are as absent as his streetshoes, which will pinch and scrape his feet in all the old leathery ways once the race is over and he has to walk through the front door of his future like a brush man with some feckless patter and a chintzy plastic prize. (14)

because, of course, acts aren't language, and there's no poetry at all in suicide, only in some accounts of it . . . significance, value in this sense, belongs solely to sentences. Actions, and other similar events, have meaning only secondarily, as we impute it to them, and so may mean many things to many people. Words are acts only secondarily. They principally exist in the systems which establish and define them (as numbers do in mathematics), so while feasting may mean one thing to a Jew and quite another to a Samoan, the word "Traum," uttered anywhere by anybody, remains irrevocably German. (12)

#William Gass #the word within the world #the doomed in their sinking #plato

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