↓ {003} the never ending stories.
our icons → it's supposed to be homin but it can be read as any changmin couple. he being yunho.
(it's useful to know your way around photoshop to read this).
When he wakes up the world is underneath the blur tool, everything seems desaturated and under a duplicate life, set to soft light layer.
His eyes catch up to his brain and someone clicked undo, then after coffee everything has been sharpened.
Sunglasses on and it's suddenly always sunset-hour in some beach in California.
Changmin is in his vision and life seems like those ridiculous gifs. A small box of Changmin smiling, all crescent grinning eyes and floating hearts that shouldn't really be there in the first place.
When they're on stage, the world is under a screen layer and he can't really see anymore, the world becomes pure sound and no image.
When kissing, he's positive the world became pinker, shadows darkened and someone played around with selective colours to make everything go banjjak banjjak, he suddenly feels like such a girl. Even if hidden in a closet, the black and grey scale minimized and everything glows with that love-white light.
In the afternoon, everything starts loosing it's sharpness and the sunset is under guassian blur, his sunglasses are now heavy brown exclusion layers, nothing seems quiet so beautiful anymore.
After his 6 o'clock coffee, the world has been submitted to the burn tool and colours are washed out. Images sharp enough to see, blurry enough to forget.
At 2 AM they are still at it, camera threatening him to stay awake, but Changmin's gif now has a navy blue background with stars that shine in way that they lul him to sleep.
Three hours pass in slow motion, like a gif that refuses to load or bad timing. It's time for bed and in bed, two multiply layers smother every single cell of light, the only fuzzy colours left are Changmin and his pink pink lips.
That image, focused on his lovers face, that perfection, makes his brain go 'file, save as, youre a bit too much'.
Because even those love bites that make his skin look like someone went crazy with the colour palette and smudge tool, those words that blind his eyes with stinging blur tool tears, it's all worth it, those perfect images, it's all worth it.
plastic glass hearts → supposedly jaechun but can be read as anything. he being jaejoong and he being yoochun.
(written on twitter). it has no real actual end; might continue it.
he wonder, that if maybe, his heart isn't made out of glass. but plastic. it recycles itself, a bit poorer than the last model but, almost as good, it serves it's purpose, pumps as good, feels with almost the same intensity.
he thinks, it's plastic.
because glass breaks into shards, tiny shards that crawl under your skin and infect it, turning it hues of greens and yellows that aren't even human anymore. not his. his heart sort of crumples, it dents into itself until it resembles a paper ball or a kicked in tin can.
it's not like glass, which after one bump, one hit, it's gone, forever broken. you can undent it, reuse it, reabuse it.
he's sure his heart is made out of plastic, because everyone can remember those dents. those people who came and chipped, broke down, defragmented their hearts.
he can't.
all those dents, all that pain, all that effort, recycling. remembering got lost in the process.
he thinks his heart is made out of plastic, because it's not grand or detailed like glass, not eccentric or specially eyecatching, but so much more useful.
he believes, that his heart is made out of plastic, because there's no way it's the same as his. Who remembers every scratch, shard missing, every single bump and fall, he holds onto them and mourns, mourns for his little glass heart, torn up like a war time memory.
his heart can't be made out of glass, because no matter how many scratches, dents, falls, bumps, there's a rebound, a recycle, and there it is again.
he can't be glass because, it's too beautiful, and he's just a throw away, used and reused, ready to abuse.
no.
he is hard plastic, that's never as clear, never as beautiful as all those other glass hearts, never new, never actually yours, never really actually feeling, never authentic.
he isn't hand made, effort made, love made. a machine popped him out, defective on the street sides, the cycle starts there.