Barcode - Oneshot (Tablo!centric)
Title: Barcode
Author: kayjayloves
Chapter: 1/1
Pairing: Tablo!centric; hint of blohyuk
Band: Epik High
Genre: introspective
Rating: PG-13
Warning: cussing, a little violence, eh
Disclaimer: Don't own these guys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: mental fits/breakin' pencil tips and inkin' brushes/simple rushes
Comments: mm. to write something.
Human politics, from whispered hushes and distant crushes.
Mental fits, breakin’ pencil tips and inkin’ brushes.
Simple rushes.
There’s a black hole in the middle of the floor. Life is on pause; the play-button is on the other side. If he steps forward, there’s a 72.5% chance he’ll miscalculate the distance and get pulled in. If he stays here, he’ll starve.
So, the question is, what does he do?
Or maybe: won’t someone tell him the solution?
Tablo’s a genius. It’s a fact: he’s seen it written and he’s taken their tests, he’s wanted to see the results and he has. He really shouldn’t give a shit. Why does everyone give a shit?
He wants to inspire and he wants to breathe. There’s still days cloaked heavy-cold in darkness and there’s still insanity (one time he spent three days composing - the vicious pull, cacoethes scribendi; he didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. they called it sick and they told him to get help.)
Everyone has labels to stick on shirt-pockets and hearts, ones to wear proudly and ones to hide. Tablo wonders once if he can take up idiot savant because sure, he’s got some talent but his life is falling to pieces. Another girl’s walked out and he’s not sure what to do except think - I could write a song with this shit.
The irony? He does.
Tablo falls in love twice, and the last time is with a boy he barely knows. Tablo and him have half-mirrored faces and he thinks maybe he should add narcissist to his track record, but the boy smiles like sunshine.
“Hi,” Tablo says and the boy talks like bullet-lightning.
“Slow down,” and he’s dancing nerves.
“I love you,” and he’s gone, gone, gone.
Sorry, Tablo thinks, I’m getting old (all i know is how to be like this). Sorry. He drinks his apology solid. And really, he knows Mithra’s strength but it doesn’t stop him from hitting him. Blow after blow, a stupid attempt at satisfaction. Suicide. Something. They get in disagreements sometimes and it gets a little crazy.
(Tablo wrote ‘crazy’ on a sticker and stuck it to his wrist, one time. It didn’t come off for days and he laughed a little every time he saw it.)
Government is corrupt because humanity is corrupt. Skin and makeup are just a cover-up for the beasts. Money is the downfall. Love is only lust. They’re all beautifully ugly.
He breaks pencils on late-night confessions to himself. He sleeps alone in a king size bed but he prefers the couch, where it doesn’t feel so empty. If Mithra wasn’t with his girlfriend tonight he’d call him; he’d beg for the key he lost the same night of their last fight. Tukutz is in L.A.
Life is a shadow on the wall and he’s tracing his hands with his eyes. Beautiful symbolism; he’s just a shadow. The right amount of light and dark can make him seem large as life or non-existent. His choice.
So there’s this black hole in the middle of the floor. He’s going crazy and he’s itching to write it down. Music or something a little like loneliness (let’s play a game, he thinks, could you name this emotion?) is running through his veins. He plays with a tiny doll set on the side of his computer desk until it slips from his fingers.
It breaks. (and he could write a song with this shit.)
The irony? He won’t.
Author: kayjayloves
Chapter: 1/1
Pairing: Tablo!centric; hint of blohyuk
Band: Epik High
Genre: introspective
Rating: PG-13
Warning: cussing, a little violence, eh
Disclaimer: Don't own these guys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: mental fits/breakin' pencil tips and inkin' brushes/simple rushes
Comments: mm. to write something.
Human politics, from whispered hushes and distant crushes.
Mental fits, breakin’ pencil tips and inkin’ brushes.
Simple rushes.
There’s a black hole in the middle of the floor. Life is on pause; the play-button is on the other side. If he steps forward, there’s a 72.5% chance he’ll miscalculate the distance and get pulled in. If he stays here, he’ll starve.
So, the question is, what does he do?
Or maybe: won’t someone tell him the solution?
Tablo’s a genius. It’s a fact: he’s seen it written and he’s taken their tests, he’s wanted to see the results and he has. He really shouldn’t give a shit. Why does everyone give a shit?
He wants to inspire and he wants to breathe. There’s still days cloaked heavy-cold in darkness and there’s still insanity (one time he spent three days composing - the vicious pull, cacoethes scribendi; he didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. they called it sick and they told him to get help.)
Everyone has labels to stick on shirt-pockets and hearts, ones to wear proudly and ones to hide. Tablo wonders once if he can take up idiot savant because sure, he’s got some talent but his life is falling to pieces. Another girl’s walked out and he’s not sure what to do except think - I could write a song with this shit.
The irony? He does.
Tablo falls in love twice, and the last time is with a boy he barely knows. Tablo and him have half-mirrored faces and he thinks maybe he should add narcissist to his track record, but the boy smiles like sunshine.
“Hi,” Tablo says and the boy talks like bullet-lightning.
“Slow down,” and he’s dancing nerves.
“I love you,” and he’s gone, gone, gone.
Sorry, Tablo thinks, I’m getting old (all i know is how to be like this). Sorry. He drinks his apology solid. And really, he knows Mithra’s strength but it doesn’t stop him from hitting him. Blow after blow, a stupid attempt at satisfaction. Suicide. Something. They get in disagreements sometimes and it gets a little crazy.
(Tablo wrote ‘crazy’ on a sticker and stuck it to his wrist, one time. It didn’t come off for days and he laughed a little every time he saw it.)
Government is corrupt because humanity is corrupt. Skin and makeup are just a cover-up for the beasts. Money is the downfall. Love is only lust. They’re all beautifully ugly.
He breaks pencils on late-night confessions to himself. He sleeps alone in a king size bed but he prefers the couch, where it doesn’t feel so empty. If Mithra wasn’t with his girlfriend tonight he’d call him; he’d beg for the key he lost the same night of their last fight. Tukutz is in L.A.
Life is a shadow on the wall and he’s tracing his hands with his eyes. Beautiful symbolism; he’s just a shadow. The right amount of light and dark can make him seem large as life or non-existent. His choice.
So there’s this black hole in the middle of the floor. He’s going crazy and he’s itching to write it down. Music or something a little like loneliness (let’s play a game, he thinks, could you name this emotion?) is running through his veins. He plays with a tiny doll set on the side of his computer desk until it slips from his fingers.
It breaks. (and he could write a song with this shit.)
The irony? He won’t.