an empty bliss | tryout form

[lysander]

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an empty bliss   |   kalon tryout by lysander
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darius    twenty-four    male


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[lysander]

 





bedded deep in long term memory.


there was a point in his life where he could remember all the things that mattered to him. back then, his art meant everything— the way his brush glided against stretched canvas and the smell of turpentine mixing with the soggy morning air. transposing life from the fog-dusted mountains in the distance onto his easel with nothing but a little paint and time— it must've been magic. every stroke a happy little accident— and by god, did he love it.

back then, things were so simple. the little problems that plagued his life seemed so big. thinking about it now only brought some bittersweet memory of the inanity of it all— the motions we repeat every day, part of a greater machine that chews and spits us out like refuse once our usefulness is outlived. mired in lies and trivial distractions in fear of raw life.

things were just never the same since he returned from the forest.




 

[lysander]

 





i still feel as though i am me.


escapism was his only vice.

of course, that was a convenient lie he told himself. between the shots of vodka and wallowing in his own misery, there was little for him to do except run— away from his thoughts, away from his emotions. he'd never been the sort to face his problems head-on— after all, was it not he who was lucky enough to be hand-picked out of an orphanage by the wealthy couple he'd later have the displeasure of calling his parents? yet— parents they were not. they fed him, clothed him, sent him to the finest schools in hopes of cultivating his talents, but was there love? perhaps merely in the most fleeting moments— but even now he wonders if he merely imagined it. all this time— all the years he'd spent under their wing, groomed to be the perfect heir for a childless couple. no— more accurately, the future curator of their real child: a wildly successful coal mining operation. with no other relatives of his own, who would he have to backstab for? for what reason should he betray the kind, loving magnate parents he never asked for?

he much preferred his paints to the expectations of his sponsors.

in the end, he never said anything to them directly— instead choosing to run away to an art school as soon as he was old enough to leave the nest. since then, it'd been— how many years now? five? ten? and not once did he ever look back.

running from yourself posed a different challenge.

all his life he accepted what came without a word— a passive participant in his own existence. more of an observer if anything, watching what happened to him with a detachment rivaling the cold, bronzed gaze of the thinker himself. he remembered once being invited to a debutante ball— an ostentatious, ritzy affair that was the talk of towns hundreds of miles over —and as the girl of the evening approached him, all he could think about was how much he did not want to dance. he hated dancing. he was good at it, of course— all those ballroom dance classes forced upon him by his parents amounted to something —but he hated it. he hated making contact with other people, much preferring to keep them at least two yards away from him at all times.

still, when she curtsied and asked for his hand, he merely put on one of his well-practiced smiles and obliged. he could feel the stares of all the other young men drilling holes into his back for the remainder of the party.

once he returned home, he lit a cigarette— inhaled, exhaled slowly. watched as the smoke faded away into the air. during their little dance, the debutante (what was her name again?) indicated that she was looking for a potential suitor. something in the way she spoke— perhaps her tone, or the way she leaned close to him with that coy smile —carried the hints of her true motives.

they were both young then, but he couldn't fault her for that. it was he who allowed it all to happen— with his utter passivity, lack of interest, and lack of energy to do anything about it. in the end, she was the one to break off a five year relationship— calling him cold, distant. any number of things. you're kind, darius. but you never once loved me.

that was the last thing she told him before leaving.
he merely watched her go, because it was true.

once she was gone, it was back to him and his paints— alone again, but not lonely. in fact, he rather liked his solitude— for him, it was his haven, his fortress, his hiding place. it was the shell into which he withdrew from the world and its noisy preoccupations with the mundane. people confused him— left him perplexed in ways his paints did not. the things they do for a little attention! surely it was the product of the circles he'd been groomed in— the upper crust of society, with wannabe carnegies and rockefellers a dime a dozen —but even so, he felt so... different. he played the part of a magnate's son, but it was only an act; in truth, he felt like an outsider from the very moment he'd been inducted into the family.

was it because he was an orphan? some waif with no sense of belonging? or was there something else wrong with him?
perhaps he was never meant to know. this bothered him very little.

that was, until he met him.




 

[lysander]

 





this is romance.


he'd never seen eyes so bright before.
to think that he'd stumble upon them by chance just on the fringes of the forest near his home— pure serendipity. from that very first meeting, something about the young man before him sparked something new in his chest that he could never recall feeling before; curiosity.

he told him his name was klaes. he was nineteen years old— dressed in some garb more befitting heidi than a member of the trending 1920s. he seemed to mysteriously show up out of nowhere, footsteps as quiet as a cat yet accompanying a smile that reminded darius of hydrangeas— as if that analogy made any sense. of course it didn't— but neither did the near-apparition grinning at him like the summer sun.

i've seen you around, he began. you come here a lot to paint. forgive me for being nosy, but— i can't help it. you have quite a gift!

darius glanced at the painting he'd been working on, forgotten in light of his current predicament. he'd been coming to this spot for years— chosen specifically for its secluded nature, hidden away from the city —his own private alcove. and not once had he ever been disturbed— until this stranger came along.

even more surprising was the fact that darius didn't seem to mind. what was it about him that made him so... different? the way he spoke— his body language, his expressions and mannerisms —seemed to be completely free of pretense. there was no ulterior motive lying just beyond the surface of his words— even upon their first meeting, darius could see the utter sincerity in the other's eyes. he smiled, laughed openly, seemed to be without a care in the world.

it was only after the fact that darius realized he'd fallen in love.

after that, days seemed to take on a different hue. the foggy mountains no longer enticed his brush the way they did before; instead, he painted how he felt. broad, expressive strokes from one edge of the canvas to the other— dashes of color, energetically smeared on as if it was child's play— of course, he didn't show these to klaes right away. for a long while, the only hint of darius' feelings were contained in the way he'd smile ever so slightly when klaes spoke to him. and speak they did— often, in fact. darius was never much of a conversationalist, but he found himself hanging onto every word the other said.

hmm... how long i've been around? truth be told, i haven't really kept track. it's been about six months at least.

a nod on darius' part. he pressed further. klaes blinked. if you're asking about my family— there's not much to ask about. klaes smiled warmly, placing his chin on his knees. i never met my parents. i've been fending for myself for as long as i can remember.

at this, darius fell silent. klaes leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of his groundward expression. and after a while, he said this: you don't need to feel sorry for me. i'm quite happy with the way things are.

that wasn't it, though. he tilts his head. then what is it?

as far as darius knew, klaes had nothing. he lived in the woods in a little cabin barely an eighth of the size of the grand ballroom of his own family's estate. he wore clothes repurposed from potato sacks and ate whatever he could find in the forest. he lived a life completely free of things darius took for granted— a gramophone in every room and a handkerchief in every breast pocket. yet— klaes seemed to not be fazed by this at all. every time he saw him, the young man's eyes spoke of a life and a joy that darius had never seen in others before.

i have everything i need— food, water, a place to sleep... and my home around me. i find it much prettier than any mansion.

it was true. darius painted before merely for painting's sake, but when he gazed upon the forest around him now, something new began to reveal itself to him little by little; the sound of water trickling from a stream, the sunlight pouring between the branches of summer's foliage, the clear sky framed by the canopy above— why, darius had been so content looking at the world through the edges of a canvas, he'd forgotten to step back and live.

the next time he visited the forest, he did not bring his paints. instead, he brought his portable gramophone— an expensive gift from his parents he never used because there was no reason to— until now. klaes regarded the contraption with much curiosity, stating that he'd only seen such things in passing when he visited the city on occasion. darius smiled, asking him if he's ever been to a ball before. as expected, klaes shook his head. gently, he lowered the needle onto his favorite record. music began to stream from the device. then, darius did something that surprised even himself:

he offered his hand to klaes. would you dance with me?

before long, the forest was a pastiche of a dream— laughter and the sound of strings and birdsong coalescing to form a beautiful song. darius' instructions interspersed with a chuckle here and there and klaes' laugh echoing through the woods. yes— you've got it. just like that. more giggles on klaes' part. what is this? we're just swaying! darius smiled. i do believe this is the prettiest ball room i've been in, though.

it was the first time he ever wanted someone to stay within that two yard radius of his. the feeling of his arms around his neck— how could he forget? the proximity of another human being, the way things felt so undeniably right. now that he understood that feeling, he never wanted to let go.

yet things change. just as summer gives way to fall.
perhaps some things were never meant to be.



 

[lysander]

 





mental caverns without sunshine.


one day, he found klaes standing there, looking towards the sky. in the fading warmth of the summer months, the mountains overlooking the forest seemed to melt into the backdrop, breaking up the horizon with their jagged edges. there was a look on his face darius couldn't recognize; it was one of those rare moments where he wasn't smiling.

noticing his presence, klaes turned around, grinning as he always did— but something felt off. like something inexplicable was changing. darius did not press him for answers, instead opting to make small talk— anything to fill the unfamiliar silence between them. klaes continued in his quiet contemplation, his uncharacteristic distance almost unnerving.

at last, he finally spoke up.

i'll be leaving before winter comes, he said simply.

leaving? darius' brows furrowed, his voice carrying the note of incredulity. leaving... but why?

the other took a moment to think, drawing circles in the dirt with the tip of his shoe. i suppose you wouldn't really understand if i told you. but i'll try anyway.

he stood up, facing away. in the sunlight, darius could see the way his hair seemed to catch gold between the strands of bronze.
i've been here for a little less than a year now. i came with spring, chose to settle in this forest for the remainder of the warm seasons— and i always leave before frost comes. i can't explain why— maybe it's wanderlust. maybe something is calling me to move forward— i don't know. but this is what i do— how i live.

darius did not make eye contact. klaes was right— he did not understand. there was an illogicality to his words that he couldn't relate to— all this talk of calling, of wanderlust, of...

of living?

ah. something clicked in his brain at last.
he and klaes could not be more different.

it never bothered darius, of course— the life reflecting in the other's eyes had him blinded in some kind of foolish infatuation lasting months. he'd become his muse— his paintings becoming less like paintings and more like emotion embodied in impressions of color. he didn't think about the empty passivity of his own existence when he was in the forest. klaes had given him all these things— but never once did darius think about what he wanted— or needed.

he'd been living vicariously through klaes ever since they first met. how pathetic.

there was a long silence between them. the scattering wings of southbound flocks seemed more the beat of a swansong in the distance. at length, darius spoke up. there was desperation i his voice, as quiet was it was.

klaes, i...

—you love me.

words. they choke up and suffocate in the back of his throat.
klaes managed to put a vicegrip around his neck with three simple syllables.

...you knew?

at this, the forest boy smiled. darius could've sworn he'd never seen a smile so warm and so cold at the same time.

it was fun while it lasted. we certainly had good times— i even learned to dance. isn't that—

—you don't love me back.

a pause.
klaes gathered his words, picking them carefully before delivering them with the grace of a pastor:

...i can't love someone who doesn't love himself.

with that, klaes began to walk away— his footsteps as quiet as a cat's and smile like hydrangeas blossoming in the mid-autumn. gone just the same way he came.

maybe we'll meet again.




 

[lysander]

 





until the end.


the forest never looked the same ever since.

he tried countless times to paint as he did before— a return to his hiding place, his fortress of solitude —but no matter what he did, his brush felt so unnatural— as if he'd forgotten how to hold it. as if his pigments were all the wrong hue— some off-color facsimile of whatever they used to be. nothing he did looked beautiful anymore. not even his attempts to capture that sublime, elusive emotion of that summer in the woods.

he stopped visiting the forest. soon, his paintings became immensely popular after being picked up by the papers. he went back to his old routine— late nights spent buzzed in speakeasies and daylight wasted away on more parties, more connections, more of the same schmoozing he witnessed for most of his life. perhaps it was hilarious in a way, how his parents praised him for his successes— as if they planned it all along. perhaps it was funny, how he continued to humor all those shallow friendships as if they meant something to him. before, things were sufferable— after all, it'd been all he'd ever known. but now— the practiced smile on his face more like a mask than ever.

and yet, he did nothing. still an ever-stagnant audience member to the theatre of his own life.
except now, he had one— just one thing he knew for certain:

he wished he never went into the forest to begin with.




E N D


 

[lysander]

 





etc.


darius is a twenty-four year old male and adopted son of a wealthy family that owns a coal-mining operation. as such, he's expected to be well-versed in the art of being a gentleman (as defined by the 1920s) and he's known for being of a princely nature— speaking infrequently but deliberately when he chooses to. in truth, the so-called mysterious aura around him is no mystery at all; he's disinterested. in most things. in most people, at that. he has very few true passions of his own, doing what is asked of him for the most part due to his lack of self motivation. the one thing he does enjoy is painting— and it's something he is very good at. prior to his summer in the woods, darius painted primarily in the old romantic styles predating the 20s, then gradually shifted towards impressionism— an in-vogue style for the time period. later on, he experiments with abstract impressionism, mixing it with his previous romantic/impressionist style. one could say he's a bit ahead of his time.

despite everything about him on the surface, darius is naive. a fool in love, he has no idea how to maintain a relationship. his people skills are crafted solely for high society social gatherings and customs— thus, when it comes to someone he's actually interested, he's an utter buffoon. he rambles awkwardly, often finding himself at a loss when the conversation comes to a halt. its in these moments that it's clear what kind of person he really is— still learning about himself, still growing— still in the process of learning to live his life not for other people, but for himself.

this form is heavily inspired by one of my favorite albums (linked above).

LYS HAS A LITTLE EXTRA TIME BEFORE THIS IS DUE SO HI I LOVE PAINTING, I PAINT, I LOVE ART HISTORY, I LOVE BIG BAND JAZZ, I LOVE JAZZ PERIOD, I LOVE FORESTS, I LOVE EVERYTHING AND I HOPE YOU CAN TELL IN THIS FORM WHICH I HAD A LOT OF FUN WRITING! also the last song presented on #5 is one i made myself a while ago O:<