http://exanimatus.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
exanimatus.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paradisalost2011-09-04 08:38 pm
exanimatus.livejournal.com) wrote in paradisalost2011-09-04 08:38 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
[it's not a very nice place, Zelman's head.
the room is large, but still very much a room. the walls are all old, chipping plaster and peeling wallpaper and an odd rust, here and there. there's warping from water and old, dark stains from what's probably (most likely) blood. but that's all if you really look at it--the biggest and easiest thing to notice is that the walls are plastered in pictures and papers, clippings and photographs. taped up, tacked on, strung up in a few places, they show everything. at eye level, they're a strange mix of things about Earth and things about Paradisa, and sometimes things that wouldn't make sense to anyone. many of the photographs are out of focus, a lot of the writing has bled together.
that's not the worrying thing. what's worrying is what's written over them and under them and around them. every thought, every observation, every connection has been mapped out with marker or string or blood (only on bad or very very very good days) until the entire thing is like some convoluted artistic nightmare; scribbles and writing are layered on top of each other. lines are drawn and then more pictures are pasted over. many of the pictures with people in them have been X'd out or torn apart. the floor is littered with old paper, half-burned scraps, and ashes. it's somewhere between genius and an absolute mess.
looking up, the room just keeps going. the walls go up and up and up, plastered for what seems like miles. there might be a ceiling, but from here it just looks like the tiny flicker of a candle's flame, burning strangely clear despite the distance. is it really a ceiling...? the air is heavy, but the place feels... empty. it feels angry and arrogant and... unimportant. none of these things are important. all of these memories are useless, trash. uncared for.
and then there's the strange, oppressive feeling that someone, or something, doesn't want you here. you do not belong here, in this place so empty of sentimentality, so devoid of comfort. there's no joy to be found, here. just millions of empty memories and the scribbles of someone about as loving as a mechanical clock.]
[if you decide to venture into Zelman's room, he'll be there--a version of him anyway, barefoot and without a hat, flickering in and out a little as if he's composed more of flame than flesh. he's lying around on the floor, on his side, nearer to the far wall. his back is to the door. he's curled up a little, one arm protectively over a small box of newspaper clippings and photographs and stray pieces of scribbled-on paper. it's not much compared to the rest of the room, but one immediately gets the feeling that these things are important. precious. much more significant to him than anything else.
the contents of the box are spilled over a little onto the floor in front of him, but he doesn't seem to care. he's gazing absently at nothing, absolutely still except for the fingernail he keeps scraping across the floor. it makes a sound like a wire being tightened. again and again, a constant sharp scraping that is probably the only thing keeping him awake.
he looks a little annoyed, a little vacant. but mostly? bored out of his mind, no pun intended.]
[[ooc: gah, length. inner!Zelman is not a very nice person (just like his room!) but if you can handle that, feel free to look around or try to talk to him or whatever floats your boat.]]
the room is large, but still very much a room. the walls are all old, chipping plaster and peeling wallpaper and an odd rust, here and there. there's warping from water and old, dark stains from what's probably (most likely) blood. but that's all if you really look at it--the biggest and easiest thing to notice is that the walls are plastered in pictures and papers, clippings and photographs. taped up, tacked on, strung up in a few places, they show everything. at eye level, they're a strange mix of things about Earth and things about Paradisa, and sometimes things that wouldn't make sense to anyone. many of the photographs are out of focus, a lot of the writing has bled together.
that's not the worrying thing. what's worrying is what's written over them and under them and around them. every thought, every observation, every connection has been mapped out with marker or string or blood (only on bad or very very very good days) until the entire thing is like some convoluted artistic nightmare; scribbles and writing are layered on top of each other. lines are drawn and then more pictures are pasted over. many of the pictures with people in them have been X'd out or torn apart. the floor is littered with old paper, half-burned scraps, and ashes. it's somewhere between genius and an absolute mess.
looking up, the room just keeps going. the walls go up and up and up, plastered for what seems like miles. there might be a ceiling, but from here it just looks like the tiny flicker of a candle's flame, burning strangely clear despite the distance. is it really a ceiling...? the air is heavy, but the place feels... empty. it feels angry and arrogant and... unimportant. none of these things are important. all of these memories are useless, trash. uncared for.
and then there's the strange, oppressive feeling that someone, or something, doesn't want you here. you do not belong here, in this place so empty of sentimentality, so devoid of comfort. there's no joy to be found, here. just millions of empty memories and the scribbles of someone about as loving as a mechanical clock.]
[if you decide to venture into Zelman's room, he'll be there--a version of him anyway, barefoot and without a hat, flickering in and out a little as if he's composed more of flame than flesh. he's lying around on the floor, on his side, nearer to the far wall. his back is to the door. he's curled up a little, one arm protectively over a small box of newspaper clippings and photographs and stray pieces of scribbled-on paper. it's not much compared to the rest of the room, but one immediately gets the feeling that these things are important. precious. much more significant to him than anything else.
the contents of the box are spilled over a little onto the floor in front of him, but he doesn't seem to care. he's gazing absently at nothing, absolutely still except for the fingernail he keeps scraping across the floor. it makes a sound like a wire being tightened. again and again, a constant sharp scraping that is probably the only thing keeping him awake.
he looks a little annoyed, a little vacant. but mostly? bored out of his mind, no pun intended.]
[[ooc: gah, length. inner!Zelman is not a very nice person (just like his room!) but if you can handle that, feel free to look around or try to talk to him or whatever floats your boat.]]
no subject
...Then are the things that are still important kept elsewhere? [He doesn't have to ask if they're in the box. He suspects they might very well be. It doesn't seem unlike Zelman to make sure all his important things were in one place, where they'd be easy to keep safe.]
no subject
More are scattered around... But the box is for things I won't want to get mixed in with everything else. They're too important.
no subject
He wonders if that light up there is the blood that Zelman talks about sometimes. The blood he shared with that important person.]
...Are the items in that box really only things, Zelman?
[Hey, he said he wouldn't look. Didn't say he wouldn't ask about it.]
no subject
[he looks down at the box, his fingers tightening around the corners.]
There are... ideas. A few people. Some other things, but it's hard to describe.
no subject
Whether I know what is in your box, I know it is important to you. The details behind them do not matter if you do not wish for me to know them.
[He glances down this time, though it's more at Zelman's hands.
...Joshua had been right about body language, hadn't he?]
Though I will admit to being curious about all of it, even if you are unable to describe it.
no subject
[he thinks about that for a moment before he reaches into his box and starts to look around for something near the top. he doesn't give any explanation as he carefully picks out that tarot card again, looking at it for a moment. once he seems to have settled on something, he holds it out for Pharos to take.]
Here.
no subject
He doesn't seem to have expected that, however, and reaches out with both hands, taking the card offered to him and holding the edges of it carefully as he looks at it. It wasn't the same as the cards he was accustomed to seeing... but it wasn't really so different, either. Most weren't.]
...Is this me?
no subject
Yes.
no subject
Pharos wonders if it's something he'll be capable of feeling again.]
Is this how I make you feel?
no subject
Sometimes, yes... and sometimes it's more of an idea.
no subject
...but it's not difficult to figure this one out, because it's a thought he's so familiar with. Zelman didn't think of him necessarily just as "Pharos". He acknowledged and accepted that he was a concept. That "Pharos" was just part of him.
The thing that was how Pharos made him feel but was also an idea... perhaps that's what being dead would feel like for Zelman. Or maybe it's what it did feel like for him.
It takes a moment, but a smile spreads across his face, and Pharos holds the tarot card out to return it to Zelman once more.]
...It is not an inaccurate idea.
no subject
That's good.
[he'll take the card back and carefully place it back in the box, where it belongs.]
no subject
I must admit... I find myself very honored to be among the things that are important to you.
no subject
[he sets the whole box down on the ground next to him, but rests his hand on the rim. there used to be a lid to it, but he's not sure where it went.]
no subject
[As promised, he still does not look into it; though he still isn't done asking his questions. He draws his legs up and crosses them, imitating Zelman's posture. Mostly just for the sake of seeing if he could.]
Is Asuka in your box as well?
no subject
Yes.
no subject
and he is so very happy about that.]I cannot say that I am entirely surprised.
how did I miss this tag... my turn for lateness. D:
gkjdhkajh and my turn now ;;
winning. :'D
I would just rather... other people don't pick up on it. It's dangerous; she's not strong like I am.
no subject
I to not believe it is entirely obvious to everyone. You only really seem to speak of her if you are asked, and you rarely answer questions that you do not wish to. [He has faith that Zelman can keep his shit under wraps. 8|b]
no subject
no subject
What is that, Zelman?
no subject
[it seems to get a little closer when it's brought to attention, but it's a good feeling--it's warm. it's familiar.]
no subject
[How very curious... Pharos leans his head to the side, trying to see what - for the most part - he really can't anymore. What makes the blood move. What makes Zelman tick.
He would so love to know such things about Zelman.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)