(no subject)
while he appreciates that things are not always simple, it is an entirely different matter when things are not always easy. simple and easy, he has come to find, are two entirely different beings. complexities are taunting, brilliant little sparks of challenges that make him start to see potentials and possibilities. the things that are hard are just the things that end up getting in his way. sleeps is both simple and hard, and therefore dubbed a fucking-waste-of-his-time.
the exhaustion that crawls under his skin is all the fuel he needs; it makes his eyes ache ferociously and his fingers twitch with misplaced adrenaline and he can hardly sit still as black sabbath is making the light fixtures rattle. tony is in the middle of it all, the eccentric conductor, hands raised as he fiddles with a glowing blue print that casts his face into further sharp cyan shadows along with the arc reactor in his chest and he's simultaneously making adjustments with one hand and drafting a new equation with another attempting to divert a potential power overload and every part of him burns in exhaustion and he loves it. this is as close to being a machine he'll ever get: it's a foolish thought and it vastly underestimates himself like he always does because no one simultaneously hates and expects more of tony than tony himself. this is what it feels like to run screaming through a live-wire and give power to something, give life to something. he is - after all, he thinks - made up of more caffeine and nicotine and psychotic brain chemicals ending in ine than blood and bone.
during rare moments of inactivity he sits hunched in his chair and watches his hands shake; presses them together and watches his fingers tremble amongst each other and there is something smug and misplaced and feral about his expression. he snaps out of it quickly enough. he always does. tony stark has an empire to run and peace to privatize.
passing out now.
the exhaustion that crawls under his skin is all the fuel he needs; it makes his eyes ache ferociously and his fingers twitch with misplaced adrenaline and he can hardly sit still as black sabbath is making the light fixtures rattle. tony is in the middle of it all, the eccentric conductor, hands raised as he fiddles with a glowing blue print that casts his face into further sharp cyan shadows along with the arc reactor in his chest and he's simultaneously making adjustments with one hand and drafting a new equation with another attempting to divert a potential power overload and every part of him burns in exhaustion and he loves it. this is as close to being a machine he'll ever get: it's a foolish thought and it vastly underestimates himself like he always does because no one simultaneously hates and expects more of tony than tony himself. this is what it feels like to run screaming through a live-wire and give power to something, give life to something. he is - after all, he thinks - made up of more caffeine and nicotine and psychotic brain chemicals ending in ine than blood and bone.
during rare moments of inactivity he sits hunched in his chair and watches his hands shake; presses them together and watches his fingers tremble amongst each other and there is something smug and misplaced and feral about his expression. he snaps out of it quickly enough. he always does. tony stark has an empire to run and peace to privatize.
passing out now.