Misty Blue - 망각 (Obliviate) - Lyrical 
Word count: 1450 

"For myself I am too heavy, and for you too light." 
-Franz Kakfa, Letters to Milena 

24th July 2012

It is ironic how extremes work. Some would dare to say that they, sasaengs, were extreme. They did not just love those that they loved, they obsessed. Yet, their worst enemies too, were the extremes- the heat and the cold. Mid summer, the sun burnt holes in her skin as she waited in the condemning silence. She was sat on a warm wooden step, she’s been here before. Every after noon after school to the early hours of the morning, sometimes during midday. She’s been here so often that everything about this spot has been imprinted in her memory- the out chewing gum lying beneath the step, dried pigeon poop on the floor before it, how his eyes sparkle when the sun shines on him from behind her. This spot used to hold memories of not her first kiss but her first sight of him, still raw. Back then, his hair was untainted and deep black, held in a ponytail. The only make up he wore was some BB cream and the occasional eyeliner. His chin held its manliness and was colored a shade darker than the rest of him from when he shaved. He wore heavy hoodies, a lot of black, he had only two ear piercings and a crooked nose. He was different from what he was today, yet just as beautiful. She had watched him change. She had watched as, slowly, they took over what he would wear. His hair started changing color as they tried to discover what image would suit him. He was loosing weight, gaining muscle. One day, the crookedness of his nose disappeared. She had been his first fan, so she kept all this secret. This time, however, this place held a different scent. It was the beginning of something new. For the first time, Sung Haneul had packed her bags and left home- not that anyone cared. Where she would go to, she did not yet know. Still, a certain sense of freedom had already begun to envelop her, she was not bound to anything. Three p.m, she knew he would be here soon. He had a recording in three hours. His first independent recording. 

A obscure kind of silence floated in the air as she waited, alone with her thoughts. The heat continued to burn through the layers of her clothes and feed at her skin. Transparent, shiny pearls of sweat clung to her neck. Inside her chest lay her heart, cold as it has always been, unmoved by the heat and unstirred by the silence. Her dark, heavily clothed, silhouette gleamed as the sun began to drown beneath the horizon. She stood still, her eyes hidden behind a pair of cheap looking, worn out dark glasses, a statue that seemed to emit heat. Every once in a while though, her chest rose and fell as warm breaths escaped the stillness of . A camera rested in her hands, camouflaged behind her black spring coat and in a way not visible to anyone, her fingers tightened their clutch on it. The scent of a subtle perfume, vanilla, glided through the air and if one looked carefully, they could see a smile form on her lips. To her, it’s smell was heavenly, rather divine. Her cold heart, unmoved by the heat and unstirred by the silence, melted as into view came a face, supported by a tall, lean figure. Time stopped. Time paused to look at him, to study him, to deduce his character from the step of a foot, to be cajoled by his scent. His scent, of water amidst a land of sand. She, she was invisible, intangible, not permitted to touch or feel. But he, he silenced as he walked past. He casted a shadow, left a footprint. His pale brown skin, done over a dozen times, sparkled in supreme beauty. His eyes shone dark, like two brown oracles, with weariness under the sun. His beauty of such magnificence, his presence of such glory. To her, there was nothing more precious, nothing more splendid than the sight of him. To her, he was the center of the whole universe. In a swift moment she undid the cover of her camera, focused it’s lens on his face and began to click. He turned around, startled and snarled into the daylight, disgusted by she. She who had come again, she who was always there. In response, she could do not much but giggle at his beautiful anger and run forward to touch the skin of his arm. In fury, he held her hand as it reached for him and twisted it with all the force he could summon. Swears, in Chinese this time, he hurled at her face. She did not struggle in his grip, for his touch was all she looked for. In frenzy he threw her to the floor still, she continued to click. People came, several of them, tall men clad in black that held her by her wrists and dragged her away. Away from the sight of him, they giggled and fondled her where she liked not to be touched. She bit into their lean arms and ran into the horizon. Still, a smile danced on her lips as even then, the grip of the man she loved remained warm on her skin- such was his marvel. 

Huang Zi Tao, my love. 

7th November 2014 

Wild chrysanthemums, a startling pearl white, bloomed against desolate ferns. Some of them withered, their yellow centers turned brown and the salty sea breeze carried their fallen petals far away. The rest lay hidden under the shadows of tall oak trees with untainted barks that crumbled with touch. Their flimsy branches skimmed against overhead clouds and early autumn caused their leaves to dwindle to the ground. In the distance was a dainty wishing fountain. Cool water trickled into its solid marble trough, gleaming nearly translucent under the aurora of sunset. Its grace was rather spell bounding. There was no one there but himself, or so he liked to believe. Under his eyes rested half moons that sagged with fatigue. His skin seemed to crack and crumble beneath the makeup. His wounded heart was blamed by the soft breeze.  Ahead of him, the sun took its final dive under the horizon and eve turned to somber night. It was dark and he was hurting, but he waited in silence. In those first days, a feeling had seemed to flood his heart- the feeling that a piece of him was melting as each day walked by. Where had he gone wrong, he wondered, for this was not the life he had envisioned for himself. This was not the reality he had shed sweat to build. Still existed moments of joy, yet those seemed to foreshadow a dark impending doom. With each trophy that he held in his hand, with each victory he was made to touch, there was not one but a hundred more thirsty for him, there was a another piece of him torn from himself. He was hurting and no words calmed his aching soul. He wished for a time where oblivion existed, for ignorance truly seemed like bliss. He wished he didn’t know who he was, what he was working for and what life had presented him with. He wished he wasn’t aware of the blood hounds that trailed him, he wished that his own beauty could go unknown to his eyes. For when one does not know their power, no one is able to see it as well. For then, excuses are valid. He had tried once to slit his wrists so that he could show them his blood, prove to them that he too had a soul and that he too was just an ordinary mortal trapped amidst a world of chaos. Alas, he could not for he had consequences to fear. He had people who, despite everything, he loved. Yes, he was still capable of love despite all that it had brought to him, this was something that startled him. For sometimes when they forgot so did he, that he was human. He liked to look at himself in the mirror, his smile brought a tiny spec of comfort to his dark soul. It showed him that he wasn't actually beautiful as they claimed, that he too was him for once. He had never grown accustomed to his newly found looks. He was standing in the dark, with nothing in hand and a scarf across his face when he heard a whisper coming from the back of where he stood. 

“ZiTao oppa.” 

That wretched voice. Huang ZiTao held his breath, 

and ran.