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Nonsense Makes True Meaning

Love is Disgusting, and That's What Makes it Beautiful

By Equilla BPublished 2 years ago 3 min read

Fallen leaves littered the quiet, rolling hills under the twilight, purple sky. Filled with the oh-so mundane movement of the birds in their delicately woven nests and the squirrels that sped through trees like snails through syrupy wastelands. Oh, how beautiful the unnamed land in its lifeful tragedy—yet still so lifeless.

Browns and greys, so dull in comparison to the useless beauty of the somber sky as the sunset turned the purple sky dark with the unfilled ambitions of the day. Yet life denies such peaceful travesties.

Two leaves fell and floated in the cool night breeze. Orange and Brown, veiny and pulsing—The Hearts of the Forest. Literal life-givers nestled themselves in the piles of brush and continued the pumping of wax through nonexistent veins and arteries. Such is the way of life. The grotesque gained life's graces, only to be misunderstood.

But beauty is not to be understood. It is felt, displayed. Only in its impurities does it make sense to the human eyes that judge it. But there are no human eyes here. The forest was quiet that night, but in the morning, it bore eyes of an unknown kind. Life gave itself a scene to act.

Two beings rose from the growth. Both stood tall among the trees yet clashing with their looks. A pile of leaves, some branches jutting out from the unfinished mulch. A deer skull for a face. Give it a name, dear reader.

Its counterpart looked much the same. Maybe some more branches. Maybe some critters tucked into its many, leafy folds that made the outline of its gut. A patch of flowers for a face. Call this one Flowey.

Genderless beings unique in their unassured existence yet alike in their unnatural hearts that now had purpose. They stared at each other for a while as the sun rose—with noneistent eyes, I suppose. The quiet was exciting, buzzing with questions as to what these two would do. Clash and Cavein the hillside? Fall apart in literay nonsense? No such assumptions could be grounded.

This is what happened: The two of them approached one another. They clasped together leaf stubs, and then they danced.

Slow at first, like the awkward couple they were. Knocking trees over as they gained their footing. Crushing small animals while the more astute ones had already fled when the two beauties came into being. But then it all made sense.

Flowey took the lead, and they went off in a freakish waltz. Holes were punched into the ground with every step by these two titans. Fallen trees pulverized with the worms and ants inside said trees fleeing toward some sense of reason as to why the earth was punishing their existence. Truly, who knows why life is so vivid in its madness? But it is.

They danced. Faster now, earthquakes as their music and the world as their stage. Bloodied by their uncontrollable strength, the hillside was red in lifelessness yet full of life in its absence—for what is life but the cycle of movements?

Energy flowing, transforming through death into new breaths. These beings of uncured matter moved with more life than any mundane nut collector or nest maker. And that is beauty.

They danced until they fell apart, their bodies collapsing under the weight of their love for life and one another. No reason to it at all. Who needs reason? Love is not of that, and life is no home for the reasonable.

Life of feeling, and so is Love. The Beings danced in feeling and felt their way to freedom. In Love they lived a life so lucrative that they could lust for nothing more. And is that not love?

Why need a form? Why need labels? The beings are as they are and danced because they were, and in that, they found peace in the moments they were alive. To Whom this may concern, this is living.

And they lived for a time. They danced for hours, and then their time had come. Pieces of themselves had flaked off. Then chunks fell, tumbling back to the ground. Their forms gave way, and they died in dance.

Their leafy hearts continued to beat for a while, but they too would fall back into the mundane. The hills were once again full of life yet lifeless in its unmeaning. The squirrels returned, and the birds flew back to their nests. The scene was quiet and ended peacefully under a purple sky like the night before.

But this time, all was lost. True existence reigned for a short time, killed by the reality of our refusal to live and love. That is the lesson, a lesson forgotten yet remembered in the beautiful beings we saw as monsters.


About the Creator

Equilla B

Hello! I'm a 22-year-old horror and fantasy writer looking to gain experience on this wonderful platform! I'll write the occasional short story about existential topics.

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