a character’s favorite vehicle, technology, coat, etc.
a pleasant night
hair, skin tone, clothing, etc. of a good person
undisturbed water of a lake
the case/container of something important
valued wood, furniture, art
velvet
Think to burn, to infect, to bleach vs. to enrich, to protect, to be of substance.
*slams reblog like the fist of an angry god*
the politics of light and dark are everywhere in our vocabulary…psa to writers: subvert this, reveal whiteness and lightness as sometimes artificial and violent, and darkness as healing, the unknown as natural
No two beings of such vast and unignorable differences should ever be in love. But, regardless, they were.
‘Star-crossed lovers’ some would say. How could Life and Death ever truly be together? But ah, they forget, you cannot have one without the other.
Life knew this which is why she loved her Death so. Even with his scaled skin, his deep set frown, his torn wings and ever constant rain cloud; Death was hers and hers alone.
Death did not know why Life loved him, with her perfectly smooth body, her waves of golden locks, bright star-kissed eyes and perfect feathered wings that glittered in the sun.
“Why do you love me?” He would ask.
“Because,“ she would reply simply. "Without you there is no me and without me there is no you.”
Then she would kiss him on his rough cheeks before pressing her full lips to his thin ones. Death only knew pure bliss from the lips of his Life. The warmth she would spread through him with her hands, her lips, her tongue…
Death knew his soul belonged to Life.
She was his goddess divine, the spark to his fire, the rain to his drought, the sun to his moon.
And when Life would gift him with the full expanse of her love for him…Death would feel…alive.
From the sway of her hips…the curve of her backside…the swell of her breasts…the pull of her lips as he would moan her name into the night…
Life gave all when she gave her passion to him. She would taunt him endlessly, tease him with her needy mouth, the flutter of her lashes, the sweep of her tongue.
Many would believe Life was the innocent one, that Death would be the one to taint her…but no Life was a vixen, a wicked creature of pleasure. And oh, how Death loved her so.
He worshiped her, body and soul. Memorized every inch of her with his cool tongue, left his marks on her skin with his claws, explored every curve and peak and cavern until she was a puddle of ecstasy.
Knowing he brought such a divine creature such as Life into the waves of erotic bliss gave Death something to live…and to love…for.
And when Life and Death joined as one…they shook the very cosmos.
It was always heated. Claws, and feathers, and teeth, and scales, and light, and warmth, and cool, and dark, and sighs, and moans, and cataclysmic bliss…over and over and over again.
Death knew he would never get enough of Life. Never get enough of the way she looked when he pushed into her, the way her hips moved in circular motion when she became frustrated with his slow pace, the way she would scream his name when he would thrust her over the edge…
Life knew she would never get enough of Death. Never get enough of the way he said her name when her mouth took him whole, the way his eyes darkened when she rode him, the way he gripped her so tight when he filled her with his pleasure she knew she would fall apart without his hold…
And when they lay together, the warmth of hers colliding with the coldness of his, she would ask:
“Why do you love me?” He would wrap his wings around her then, shutting them inside a cocoon of his darkness, the glow of her skin radiating between the rips and tears of him.
“Because,” he would simply say. “Without you there is no me and without me there is no you.”
Am I afraid of the dark? I’m not afraid of the darkness per se, but what hides within is another story. It symbolizes many things, death, loneliness, hurt, anxiety and overthinking, it’s these feelings that find their ways toward me in the dark of the night.
Yet, although I am afraid of what lies within the darkness, I myself do as well. Physically, emotionally, spiritually—Zen does not necessarily have a color nor light, I tend to close my eyes to focus in and the dark brings just that. I close my blinds and I like the room basically as dark as possible to fall asleep. It holds me in comfort as I find rest, peaceful and deep.
So, am I afraid of myself then? Is that it? The imagination is what has the most power in the dark—creating beautiful dreamscapes and nightmare-ish demons—all spouting from the same wellspring, the same mind, the same spilled ink. I have the power to control what I see and think, yet sometimes it’s overwhelming and flooding with feelings.
The dark, black slate of the mind is a mixture of emotions; the colors of the world and the mind flow together and I find whatever I’m looking for. The subconscious plays a huge role, I believe. Do I want to find comfort? What am I thinking? The worries that I don’t have time for during the light of the day rush out in the dark of the night. They unintentionally become associated with the dark because that’s when I have time to face them, when waiting for slumber to take me; thus the fear of facing myself and my own inner struggles taint the comfort I once found therein.
I must remind myself of the beauty that comes with the darkness. The stars in the sky cannot shine during the time of the sun. The moon needs the deep slumber of the sun to lull us all to bed in comfort. Each firefly and spark of a flame shines brilliantly the darker the setting is, and each bolt of lighting that strikes through the sky leaves me in awe. The contrast between light and dark does not necessarily mean one is better than the other, as they can only exist together.
![Classicism [1930]Artist: Man Ray](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a169f280593ead0586ec209a4ffcc70e/bd058eb3affca22c-14/s1280x1920/75e7e1ede5a533940b292b922ae686ddd267a536.jpg "Classicism [1930]Artist: Man Ray")
