Don’t Let It Fool You
PG-13 Loveless Fanfiction
By: Lin West
PG-13 Loveless Fanfiction
By: Lin West
It’s beautiful, it took forever, and it’s a guaranteed portfolio piece, but it’s not enough.
They smile politely with dancing eyes as I hold a fleeting vision in my palms. They say they really like it, that I’m an amazing artist. They can see it hanging over a couch (is that what people really think the epitome of this craft is?). The melting of lines which crash in a heart racing movement of acceleration embodied. The glory of the chaos within perfect order, the harmony in all that is in discordance, out of tune, and natural.
I thank them, but my insides scream: Don’t you feel it: the swelling building up in your very core, the sweeping emotions which no phrase can ever hope of communicating?
It’s unanimous, these pigments bonded to fiber were rendered with high quality from a talented student. A few more stray compliments and envious rhetoric follow.
Not enough – if it does not make you want to scream, cry, laugh, bleed, shudder, blush, and choke I have not accomplished anything.
Kio thinks I’m too hard on myself. That people are subjective – we do not feel the same about certain things and it’s not normal to have such a strong reaction to anything.
I tell him that visual images are one of the five things we can experience that are the same. So a strong image, no matter the person, should affect them; make them feel that wretch in their gut because art is the mindscape’s visualized abstractions.
Because I had surrendered, promised to everyone but myself, it becomes so easy to detach when you’ve surrendered the claim and pride you have over your limbs. You become a vessel for unlimited capacity. Worth is my use, and I want to be useful.
So as he kissed me and tangled my hair I let him. I was thirteen and if anyone could claim entitlement to me, afterall, it would be him. He had invested far more time into me than any other, held the highest regards for me, and it ultimately would be him in charge of my future. So as his soft press of flesh descended, fingers unbuttoned my clothes I moved/moaned to his touches.
Thighs entwined, and butterflies fluttering from my chest out my throat I fell into the ecstasy of the first flush/pain of heated intercourse. He was beautiful but cold and I didn’t care. I thought at the time it was a promise that he would place his name on me.
He gave me away, easily. It was nothing for him.
Seimei understood; he knew better that flesh cannot claim. He seduced me with his words and a beautiful, penetrating existence that made me see/feel him. He marked my body and mind with his signature.
A strong, clear voice verbalizing in perfect sync to clouds of ideas, he could express it all in three or two words. He makes my insides tremble/scream/wretch and I know that although his plague black hair curled in a manner that the Bible warns about, no one knows more about the quintessence of the Above than he. There is no intermediary between his thoughts and phrasing – he can decipher understand them as if words were the very essence of subconscious.
I weave words to entrance, bind, mutilate, pinch, and destroy – it is a conscious, trained flow of syllables that is calculated. Much in the way I use color and form to give the illusion of space, rendering the implication of emotion is no harder.
But neither words nor beautiful pictures are reality. It does not matter how lovely they be; the only real thing I can ever create is feeling triggered from them.
Kio once told me, “Artists tell the truth through lies.”
And I mused, “Artist lie about the truth to make it the truth.”
