Work Text:
confess! always a flaw
confess! a flaw that gets in
confess! always a crack.
shadow!
untold! the hoax that harms,
the hoax that harms the spirit.
the first one to arrive,
the last to confess.they've got their arms outstretched,
they've got their front row tickets,
they're the first to arrive
for the trial, for the raid.we run, we run for first-
off the road and off the record-
we run, we run for first
but the first come in second,
when we spit out the names of those we betrayed.
©65daysofstatic — the conspiracy of seeds
This is just another story about lost soulmates, one's dumb actions and cold falls, and Tyler isn't completely sure what is worse—the conscious breakdown he had this morning while showering, or the realisation that all this story went cliché.
This is just another story about the consequence of being held captive by your own fears and not being brave enough to escape, and it is certainly not the one to become Bestseller Of The Year according to the damned New York Times or some critic from Daily Telegraph, but. For Tyler this story becomes a breaking point, and he cannot do anything to resolve that.
A bestseller of his life.
The author has exceeded his own success.
This time—at last.
More details about this short summer holding the memories of twenty-thirty days completely dedicated to another person—just because he was so eager to that fighting it was almost impossible. More reasons for everything that happened and the words spoken while it did:
Tyler thought he was in love.
Tyler thought he had found his soulmate.
The soulmate thought different.
And, again, it just so happened that July has turned into the month of complete frustration with everything he once knew; and, again, it just so happened that these words about 'going back to as it was before it as soon as it doesn't work out the way it should' ended up being just words, and these short messages, like 'g'night' and also 'lmao, look at this meme, dude'. No more, no less, just a try—a mediocre at best—to get back to something that loomed over them before this May as this stupid 'you're my friend.'
He just tried to come first.
He just betrayed himself and someone else—someone he shouldn't have.
Or it's him who'd been betrayed—he's still not entirely sure how this works.
A fool indeed.
Now September strikes his cheeks with damned +5.5F, and his hands petrify, as if covered with black acrylic and superglue, a cracked windbitten shell of his skin on the outside. Now it's all about coming home after the sun goes down, and fatigue with a constant urge to leave in favour of the cold taking over—without hats and scarves, opening his chest and being Danko*, washing all the usual colours off the Northern People's faces:
First, cyan—because blue is better.
Then, mustard yellow—because neon one became so dear this summer.
Last, white—because there's too much of it already.
'Now' is such a simple word, tugging at the heartstrings with it's meaning, suggesting existence of some 'then', hiding a deep, ripe, aching nostalgia in itself. Tyler hates goddamn 'now' with all his guts, but this September makes this word its—and his by proxy—mantra that dissonates with kissed by cold autumn wind burning-red cheeks.
Now he doesn't even know when the tears come, streaming down his face, let alone why this happens. Now ideas for stories in Instagram, substituting for vines, come so rarely, and words in his weekly essays don't look right. It's like September brings a curse upon him, God.
(Why is it so cold in here?)
(You don't know the real cold.)
Another urge that comes when it's +5.5F outside is to spit out the names of those you betrayed and cursed.
It's not as simple as it seems, but.
He tries his best.
The Northern City turns into a freakshow this September.
He notices how strange it is, seeing all these pretentious grimaces and knowing the rationale behind them. It happens when you think you know the person. He notices how strange it is, and writes a whole book about it, about Josh Dun and his unbearable influence, and about how it is sometimes important to let a person go. (It's really not, at least Tyler doesn't feel like it does something for him). He notices how strange it is, knowing everything in advance and thinking:
"Was I that stupid as well?"
Or
"Wow, that looks like real tomfoolery."
Like reading a story you have known the ending of for such a long time it feels like you've been there for all your life.
Now, when it's +5.5F outside, this feeling doesn't let go 24/7. Tyler holds onto, onto, onto those commandments, like
"Thou shalt not covet"
And
"Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour."
As though it defines his very self.
Somewhere in Messiah's Handbook old man Rich Bach tells him:
"You are free to create and honor
Whatever past you choose
To heal and transform
Your present".
And if this is also true, then why is he so desperately tied to this nonsense when his common sense yells to let it all go?
And, yeah, this is all just a stupid prank, go figure who decided to play it and on whom. Aching high he gets from tricking the trickster falls victim to realisation that he's also being tricked even if he was sure that it can't be.
This is just a story about the lost not-even-soulmates and cold September, and it's certainly not the one to become the Bestseller of the Year, but the line about spat out names and hoax that hurts the spirit from the song bearing the fragrance of this frustrated July lingers in his head. Tyler writes a whole book about that. A bestseller of his life.
The temperature outside goes up to +6F.