Prose

A fragment I found in an old Obsidian archive and rewrote.

The lonely one. That is what she was called, in a story written by a seasoned solitary. She was called so because no one realized she was lonely— not even herself. The reason was simple: She had yet to define “loneliness.” So the woman decided to embark on a journey. To seek the true meaning of something that had quietly clung to her. She closed her gate softly, So that God wouldn’t notice. ...

A cafe dialogue about loneliness, the dualism of the mind, and a network of mischievous neurons.

One night, long before I knew anything of encrypted texts, little Mus was awakened by the sound of crying, rising and falling like a musical scale. A girl in an ivory-white dress sat in the corner of the room, leaning against the cold wall. Her knees were pulled tight to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her head bowed, her face hidden in the folds of her arms. In the narrow space between breath and sob, tears fell. ...

In a corner of my mind, there lies a realm called Silva Nigra; a forest of blackened leaves. At its heart stands Aristolochia, a castle woven from biomolecules. There, Troides helena dwells. Outside my mind, she is merely a butterfly growing rare, cast aside by human exploitation of the tropical forests. Queen Helena is renowned for her exquisite beauty. Her forewings are a deep, ink-black; her hindwings a vibrant yellow, etched with poetic, dark patterns. ...