this is a motherfucking open log about streetlights
WHO: Baroona and OPEN
WHERE: next to...,...a flickering streetlight
WHEN: UH... TONIGHT?
WARNINGS: this is so boring, also Greer TL;DRing for a character GASP
SUMMARY: Baroona can't sleep so he watches a streelight flicker for..,...comfort. I told you it was boring okay.
FORMAT: whatever anyone even wants
He wakes up in a cold sweat some nights. He finds himself short of breath, breathing heavily as if air was something he had just discovered. His clothes stick to his skin, a second layer of flesh failing to protect him from memories infiltrating his dreams. The images stay with him, dotting his vision. He finds himself shaking.
Throwing the covers off, he sits up, stares at the ground. Curls his toes on the floor to remind him that it's real. His dream was the fake world. He feels the bedsheets, reminds himself that this is the type of world he lives in now. It's not home. There's a mattress underneath him, blankets and bedsheets and pillows surrounding him. The life of luxury. He is living this way now.
He gets up off the bed, retrieving his cigarettes and his blades from beneath his pillow. He stuffs the knives in their bag, wrapping the belt around his waist. He's still in his pajamas, an outfit too thin for the weather outside. But he goes out anyway. Opens the window and slides out, clambering onto the roof.
The sky is his only comfort now, it seems. He finds himself looking up at it daily, reminding himself that while the rest of the world changes the sky stays the same. He traces a constellation with his finger, finding his way to the North Star. When he finds it, his hand drops to the roof and he opens up his pack of cigarettes.
Marino told him that cigarettes perked him up; that was their point. He believed him then, although now Baroona knew it was really just his master himself that cheered him on. Made life bearable. But at the time he believed in the cigarettes and now it remained less of a pick-me-up and more as a tribute. No, not a tribute. An apology. A way to cope with the guilt he could never get rid of. Something to remember and honor Marino by. Continuing his legacy. Something. Doing something.
He furrows his brow at the stars. They were supposed to comfort, not encourage these feelings. Yet here he was, musing over his master again. He sits up, lighting a cigarette and looks out over the City instead. A sudden pang of intrigue strikes him as he watches a streetlight flicker on and off a few blocks away. He slips back down into his room, changes quickly, frequently looking out the window to make sure the light was still there. Still flickering. It was.
He gets attracted to these small differences sometimes. Justin Bieber's hair, a flickering streetlight, the twist-ties on loafs of bread. Small things, things taken for granted. He likes to question them. It helps him understand the differences between his world and this one. Makes it easier to live.
He pulls on a sleeveless shirt (less concerned with exposing his shoulder branding at this time of night), tugs on pants, ties up his boots and slips out the window again. He makes his way down to the ground skillfully and silently, still smoking his cigarette. Looking up at the North Star for guidance, he finds his way back to that flickering light.
He stays on the opposite side of the street at first, watching the lamp flicker on and off on and off with a sort of cautiousness. It reminds him of a candle, the unsteadiness of the glow. How the flame would move back and forth, shedding light on different areas at different moments. Here it was the same. He approaches it, slowly, standing under it and looking up during one of the lightless intervals. Then the light came on again and he looks away quickly, already seeing spots in his vision. He retreats from under the light to just outside it's reach. After awhile he sits down on the curb next to the light, watching it still. It calms him like the stars were supposed to, and he remains there for a long time.
Which must look hella weird for anyone passing by.
WHERE: next to...,...a flickering streetlight
WHEN: UH... TONIGHT?
WARNINGS: this is so boring, also Greer TL;DRing for a character GASP
SUMMARY: Baroona can't sleep so he watches a streelight flicker for..,...comfort. I told you it was boring okay.
FORMAT: whatever anyone even wants
He wakes up in a cold sweat some nights. He finds himself short of breath, breathing heavily as if air was something he had just discovered. His clothes stick to his skin, a second layer of flesh failing to protect him from memories infiltrating his dreams. The images stay with him, dotting his vision. He finds himself shaking.
Throwing the covers off, he sits up, stares at the ground. Curls his toes on the floor to remind him that it's real. His dream was the fake world. He feels the bedsheets, reminds himself that this is the type of world he lives in now. It's not home. There's a mattress underneath him, blankets and bedsheets and pillows surrounding him. The life of luxury. He is living this way now.
He gets up off the bed, retrieving his cigarettes and his blades from beneath his pillow. He stuffs the knives in their bag, wrapping the belt around his waist. He's still in his pajamas, an outfit too thin for the weather outside. But he goes out anyway. Opens the window and slides out, clambering onto the roof.
The sky is his only comfort now, it seems. He finds himself looking up at it daily, reminding himself that while the rest of the world changes the sky stays the same. He traces a constellation with his finger, finding his way to the North Star. When he finds it, his hand drops to the roof and he opens up his pack of cigarettes.
Marino told him that cigarettes perked him up; that was their point. He believed him then, although now Baroona knew it was really just his master himself that cheered him on. Made life bearable. But at the time he believed in the cigarettes and now it remained less of a pick-me-up and more as a tribute. No, not a tribute. An apology. A way to cope with the guilt he could never get rid of. Something to remember and honor Marino by. Continuing his legacy. Something. Doing something.
He furrows his brow at the stars. They were supposed to comfort, not encourage these feelings. Yet here he was, musing over his master again. He sits up, lighting a cigarette and looks out over the City instead. A sudden pang of intrigue strikes him as he watches a streetlight flicker on and off a few blocks away. He slips back down into his room, changes quickly, frequently looking out the window to make sure the light was still there. Still flickering. It was.
He gets attracted to these small differences sometimes. Justin Bieber's hair, a flickering streetlight, the twist-ties on loafs of bread. Small things, things taken for granted. He likes to question them. It helps him understand the differences between his world and this one. Makes it easier to live.
He pulls on a sleeveless shirt (less concerned with exposing his shoulder branding at this time of night), tugs on pants, ties up his boots and slips out the window again. He makes his way down to the ground skillfully and silently, still smoking his cigarette. Looking up at the North Star for guidance, he finds his way back to that flickering light.
He stays on the opposite side of the street at first, watching the lamp flicker on and off on and off with a sort of cautiousness. It reminds him of a candle, the unsteadiness of the glow. How the flame would move back and forth, shedding light on different areas at different moments. Here it was the same. He approaches it, slowly, standing under it and looking up during one of the lightless intervals. Then the light came on again and he looks away quickly, already seeing spots in his vision. He retreats from under the light to just outside it's reach. After awhile he sits down on the curb next to the light, watching it still. It calms him like the stars were supposed to, and he remains there for a long time.
Which must look hella weird for anyone passing by.