Grey Scale
Grey Scale
Tao // Centric
476 words; pg-13
warning: alcohol mention
Grey days and dark skies both match Zitao's life.
Disappointment is like water. You sip through a bottle all day and you don't realize that you're taking it in, just like the bags under Zitao’s eyes. Zitao's swollen under eyes seem to absorb everything from the malicious semi-transparent fog to stacks of paperwork yet to be done, and all the way to the rolling thunder that always seem to scare the hell out of him.
Incoherent words were read upon them. His eye bags could almost tell a story on its own, as if the darkness screamed a book out loud. But, the thick black and purple strained skin, covering excess liquid, flowed to his eyes just making his smile brighter.
Bright and shining like the reflection of the sun over silver aluminum and catastrophe enameled armor, along with a twinkling cleanse. Zitao stayed quiet, but he enjoyed his mind as fully. Busy cities, streaming lakes, the smell of baking cakes, working hard, and broken shards of all the terribly broken hearts.
The bluish circles never seem to lift from his expressionless silk painted face. Work was essential. Food is essential. Money is essential; In return, Zitao got an apartment filled with empty words and a refrigerator from the 1980s that buzzed when it started, keeping Zitao up until 3:57 in the morning, and wishing for sleep before the 4:00 AM alarm.
Three minutes of sleep never seemed long enough even after nights of suffering from prone insomnia that never really went away. His pillows never seemed to stay the same; night after night they went from the bare foot of the bed, to the sheer white covers, and to Zitao’s neck. His dreams always varied in different sizes and shapes too, some maybe even fluxuating. Sometimes he dreams of a certain people. He dreams of antiques, and record players he can’t hear and sometimes drowning in a pool of words that he couldn’t really read.
The days would dry up without any breakfast or a decent lunch, and sometimes a dinner that would never really fill his appetite, because as soon as he gets to his anxious feet, he runs to work with a black suit incomplete by a tie. Sometimes a little vodka to wash away all of the splotchy darkness in the light. He uses the clean shot glasses so that little by little, the world and his mind would wash away to a rest that Zitao cherishes so dearly.
The nights would get darker, his smile would lessen, his ribs getting more and more visible, the stacks and piles of black inked paper getting higher, and the vodka bottles that he believes would touch the sky would increase. Although, day after day, night after night, all he really gets is that he is holding on to something that isn’t here anymore, wishing it to come back. Knowing it won’t.
- I don't really have anything to say
- besides that im kinda really sad rn
Tao // Centric
476 words; pg-13
warning: alcohol mention
Grey days and dark skies both match Zitao's life.
Disappointment is like water. You sip through a bottle all day and you don't realize that you're taking it in, just like the bags under Zitao’s eyes. Zitao's swollen under eyes seem to absorb everything from the malicious semi-transparent fog to stacks of paperwork yet to be done, and all the way to the rolling thunder that always seem to scare the hell out of him.
Incoherent words were read upon them. His eye bags could almost tell a story on its own, as if the darkness screamed a book out loud. But, the thick black and purple strained skin, covering excess liquid, flowed to his eyes just making his smile brighter.
Bright and shining like the reflection of the sun over silver aluminum and catastrophe enameled armor, along with a twinkling cleanse. Zitao stayed quiet, but he enjoyed his mind as fully. Busy cities, streaming lakes, the smell of baking cakes, working hard, and broken shards of all the terribly broken hearts.
The bluish circles never seem to lift from his expressionless silk painted face. Work was essential. Food is essential. Money is essential; In return, Zitao got an apartment filled with empty words and a refrigerator from the 1980s that buzzed when it started, keeping Zitao up until 3:57 in the morning, and wishing for sleep before the 4:00 AM alarm.
Three minutes of sleep never seemed long enough even after nights of suffering from prone insomnia that never really went away. His pillows never seemed to stay the same; night after night they went from the bare foot of the bed, to the sheer white covers, and to Zitao’s neck. His dreams always varied in different sizes and shapes too, some maybe even fluxuating. Sometimes he dreams of a certain people. He dreams of antiques, and record players he can’t hear and sometimes drowning in a pool of words that he couldn’t really read.
The days would dry up without any breakfast or a decent lunch, and sometimes a dinner that would never really fill his appetite, because as soon as he gets to his anxious feet, he runs to work with a black suit incomplete by a tie. Sometimes a little vodka to wash away all of the splotchy darkness in the light. He uses the clean shot glasses so that little by little, the world and his mind would wash away to a rest that Zitao cherishes so dearly.
The nights would get darker, his smile would lessen, his ribs getting more and more visible, the stacks and piles of black inked paper getting higher, and the vodka bottles that he believes would touch the sky would increase. Although, day after day, night after night, all he really gets is that he is holding on to something that isn’t here anymore, wishing it to come back. Knowing it won’t.
- I don't really have anything to say
- besides that im kinda really sad rn