Why I was so delayed? Capcut broke on my phone for a bit.

Actually sharing an excerpt chapter from Section One Ishmael: Pt. 3 cos why not?

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(RLQ: who tf is K? K is one of the major aspects of Ishmael's subconscious, the 'dream' aspect who discusses with Ishmael often in the boy's sleep.)

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CHAPTER ELEVEN EXCERPT: TO TALK, PT. 1

It was not the forfeiture of the properties that which were of existence: it is of the chief transcendence of the artful and dissonant spirit, the expression within the in-expression: anything else was derived of it, and all that was felt was but a whisper of the invisible and inner swelling, inner living and engaging expression, that itself being mocked by these things; one has not hemmed in death by the speech: it is the upmost incarnation of an incandescent, intoning material, wholly inanimate but animate, completely composed by itself and others, given life as to which propose itself with the expression and it's purposes, and in searching apprehend or perhaps be the un-comprehensible.

Ishmael, currently speaking, spoke as he could: "If I'm not an expression, or in that, what is and am I?"

K. gave it thought. Said, "What is your expression? It cannot be difficult to interpret: of whichever, there is the here-ever: hereditary to the human spirit."

The two traversed upon Ishmael's own sea and found no land as to which rest: the restriction of rest suited not him but the wandering, un-good heartless, the center: the unity was of the ultimate dissonance between: firstly, Ishmael noted that, because of the teachings of the Rézshomći's, those holy figures, who seemed to transcend manhood, and were dearly loved, and were the working idealists, the holy fools, he felt as though, and not only felt but knew deeply in himself, that timidly or foolhardily, he was in the supposed rareness of the last lambs of goodness, of beauty, shivering, incandescent beauty,, when in truth he was opposite, opposed to it; he was a Réla, a name, a force, an action and without action. In essence, that of this incarnation that could recognize its own expression and the goodness was against it, inherently given the traits as to forgive endlessly and to be forgiven and to be of the upmost sorrow and rage: he was the binding of existence, of the forfeiture of loss and victory: for he was, and he feared and rejoiced and rejected this.

Ishmael turned, as the forces of his mind, their minds, flowed together and changed scenery, as if consoling his tumultuous and young soul: for now he understood in partiality the fever and the zealous forgiveness of the holy fools, of the starved and the self-immolated priests who said to all, 'of love', and of the Yéć's love. He turned to K and spoke and his words were carried true: as they stirred before air and the senses, and they were received readily by the spirit of K, who had not lived but was given visions of life by the visions of the reddish plains from Ishmael's own desires.

"K., you have accompanied me as I walk before I wake, and you will disappear before the wake has become; but, if I wake from this dream, am I to see myself as the unchanged? Am I truly the lamb that which not is of innocence and goodness, but only expression, solely and merely that, and nothing being held more lofty in me but the trembling, decadent flame to consume, to decieve?" Ishmael said.

K. Looked ever thoughtful.

He said at length, bending his impossible neck to Ishmael, peering at the boy's eyes: "They say war is the ultimate unifier: the war is the expression: the war is the possibility of death, of the possession of goodness for one's own, for the inherenitance of this conflict is to realize the war is the self-same expression which is of art, of aesthetic, of barbarity: and yet they are good, some of them. Art consoles the soul: and all derives from art, and even art itself derives from itself. Ishmael: because of this inheritance, this worn ever face, the name, you have seen and have been sought by expression, by war, whilst you have sought beauty, have sought love: you said yourself that you believe love is the ultimate fixation, the both-ness of beauty and expression, not war."

Ishmael said with some trouble, as he felt himself drifting from this sleep to wake: "Yes. I did. I said that all who values the expression and anyone who values beauty, but is entirely composed by expressions, by little wars, should live not only for beauty but for the depth of it: for the dignity of freedom, for the love."

K. Hummed like a bird, and said: "But you idealize the expression, no? The idealist is the disconnected person, no? Beauty, for you, is as expression to I: it is integral, but wholly foreign to each other: only binded by love, only binded by the acknowledgment of love. Anything else, any idea of how they are claimed as duo, is foolery."

Ishmael shook his head: "I don't know. But I will say, that although beauty and expression are foreign; as I am to beauty, the vigorous and the damned lamb, who's nature is to be the provoker of conflict, and to be the lover of the unnamable, I find that I am nowhere but forgotten, forgetting of the definitions, lifted from them; I love beauty because I have no head, no heart, no soul, only the recognition of beauty. I have no limbs, only folly, only the weapons: K, if you see me, I have let you see me, let you perceive and pass me unto you and your kinds of expressions of which you cannot acknowledge. There is war everywhere, and so there is beauty before and after it, and inbetween the conflict there is the sights of beauty which reassures the dreamer of the possibilities, of love, and of the matters of the other expression."

He continued: "It is against my innate duty to be so singular: but I try, I strive. I love and love all things, and I will come upon them with my expression, my binding, my war, even as I try not to: I will seek reason and seek love. I will dream as one should and one shouldn't, and I am without the amusement of realizing anything proper: simply, I am the foremost servant of evil, of destruction, but I am in love, and I wish to console, to heal: to be as one is without the doubts, to be an idiot who acknowledges his own idiocy, to seek beauty as to preserve it and to preserve the soul: I am unbearably heavy and light."

And thus before K. could speak, Ishmael awoke.

...

I think there was some miscommunication because I'm editing the person's take

I haven't personally read RI yet

I already have my music chosen

But

I need a matchup going. It can be overkill, it can be fair, doesn't really matter. (Personally, I'd like to see some updated takes on Akiyama or Baku, since I haven't seen the two in a while. However I'll edit anything if it gets enough upvotes).

The most upvoted comment will be the one edited!

Actually sharing an excerpt chapter from Section One Ishmael: Pt. 2 cos why not?
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(RLQ: Section One Ishmael dominates a huge portion of his journey. Roughly 40%. His character in this part, although the same with later aspects, has more focus on other aspects that become dormant/differently interpretable in Section Two. Since his character is incredibly fractured, it makes sense the focuses on him are incredibly diverse later on. In Section One, however, several aspects remain consistent).

(I mean, he's already pretty dense in these few chapters. Considering the plot style is polyphonic and also vignettes, multiple characters are explored: but Ishmael has some of the most depth given to him besides a few select others).

(Also the concepts of beauty and expression for him gets really insane so I don't wanna get into that rn).

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CHAPTER FIVE EXCERPT, PT 2: HIS CHILDHOOD FEELINGS.

He was perfectly built in the manner that was pleasing to something that had beauty and was in possession something that was still to be properly relayed unto him as an aspect of beauty: pleasant, unsure, and the discussion of character clearly unto him shown as play-style, with the cast of thoughts and sets and actions somehow defined before they would be articulated: no sooner had he spoken then would it then become clear that there was a deception, in that he was a liar of this cast, of the actor-thoughts, and a liar to himself and others without realizing or regarding: if there was reality with him there was the inaction, the impossibility of implicating any serious crime other than being a statehood of un-actualization: this was not the case of a falsity of purposeful methodology, but rather an expression wholly separate and dependent on the former and his ability to actively feel and deny expression. It was, as a consequence of having been immersed in bodily and mental and spiritual awareness, and of this awareness the indication of individual facehood, a fault! He was tempted by expression and knew not of which of them and the endless multitudes would make him condemned.

Frankly, despite his growing awkwardness throughout with the prospects of this expression, of this empathy for the anti-empathy, for the empathy towards the deeper and more primal emotions, that of which had no grounding, only in them a strange magic, that he feared so, and that was feared by the strict upbringing about him, and by the laws of nature as seen fit by the sailors and their comrades and the artists: as emitted by these walkers, the daywalkers, he sought to capture their light and give it attention and properly inspect them, to inform of himself these warmths and coldness, and to accurately measure and convey upon himself his own projection of light that was sorely absent from him, as he did not beed this emanation of the day, for he was day, and he was night.

He felt compelled to actually reconcile himself with this expression of damnation. Or, precisely more, he was inclined because he had the curiosity present to attempt to understand why he was drawn to the things of desire beyond beauty, and beyond beauty he at times appreciated the beauty flatly, only in the sides, never round: rather it was beauty and now he was realizing that it was pain to try and seek it and preserve it with a violent awareness to it.

So whenever he would take to sea alongside his father Sćievh, and his older brother Řidem, he was consumed by the interests of this inward, soaring pain, that not of agony but instead of dullness, and in feeling it he was acquainted early with the discontent of the external world with his heart, and his mind, and his soul. For what purpose was held within the search of beauty when it seemed as though the permanence of it was ever gone and going and fleeing, not fearful of death but rather fearful of the way it was to be consumed and considered by those who had the capacity to live and simply be, and be in pain, and be in indifference to it, to itself, to themselves: was beauty present in anything as tumultuous as the sea, as faithless and fearless and wrathful and serene as the sea?

While the dancing circles in the evenings, in the stone brick centers, alighting the night with revelry, he was absorbed by the cultivation of the dancing members, giving them water quietly, and wondering why they danced. These dances would last throughout the night upon the holier days, and he was particularly unholy, because he was in a way illiterate in articulating his good heartedness in anything besides action, and so never saying much helped the priest's and the other youths of holier vocation, and would listen a great deal to all things: these buildings were gorgeous, built in traditional styles with steepled walls and round, fruit like tops, spinning to the heavens. He was not allowed to participate in these dances, for he was only ten, but he saw how lovely and graceful they were, and wondered if grace was with age, the earliest ages must be graceless: without beauty. Yet he was still compelled by some ancient, almost primal sense to love all and try to see all with new eyes.

What was beauty without pain, without ugliness, without anything that rendered it beyond simply pleasurable or pleasant? What made his beauty, that he saw in all things, until he would be tormented by the wish to revoke this grace from those he found in accordance of expression: beauty, as where he lived, and wished to live, amongst the beds and creaking floorboards and peeling plaster, was the opposite of the expression which dominated and articulated all factors of personal experience and existence, as it was in addition to fate, to consciousness, to the denial-fate, to the denial-consciousness.

And even though he was able to recognize this conflict, he subsided it and was never left from it: it grew separate, almost a tumor of the mind, in fact a disease that is innate, perhaps more extreme for him in its spreading throughout his spirit and body as a result of his wholly compassionate and heavily conscious person.

He was not isolated because of how he was or how he was surrounded, but simply was isolated because he did not understand this beauty he idolized and wished to preserve, and found his character inadequate, and destroying of it: the life particular to these souls, to this, to himself, is that of which is lacking in the emanation of purpose whilst containing this a very especial purpose that defies natural categorization; the isolated life, the life that is in seeking of this purpose, of purity, must as well seek to fully display and comprehend the magical essence that protects the matter of living in coolness and serenity and uncertainty.

This specific part of the city, this specific area, different from those of his own culture, was of sailing: and so he sailed, but always took with him what he could to remind himself of the land: not because he feared the sea, but because he was afraid of somehow forgetting the area, the place and their names, their scents, and the many foods and plays and sounds that came along. Why did he fear this forgetting? What was it? He did not know but he felt! And that was it, that was him: he did not know but he felt. It could have been meaningless yet he felt still, treated it as something that was of matter.

Yet in feeling he was tainted because he was enamored with the way the inanimate were endlessly beautiful: they had without any doubt the fallings of a conscious, tumultuous spirit, and without it they were oblivious to the turning of season and the commands of invisible forces, such as fate and her assistants: they were good, the inanimate, because they could do no evil, but also they were nothing because they could not recognize any faculties; and so he questioned, and was always a little trapped by his very questioning, living more prominently and excitingly in his mind. For despite his young age he was with special and warm eyes that had the capacity to become entirely apathetic, yet this was assaulted upon and prevented by the association of his heart with these questions, with the matter of expression, and with the matter of beauty.

He ate because he must: he felt for sleep and was allowed to snuggle into it: and no sooner would he eat or rest he was accosted by these disruptions in his otherwise serene and youthful mind. Why must he rest? Why must he eat? What was compelling him? This was expression, or something else? He did feel them, he felt is so acutely they were rendered in his mind as people, as light and dark, filling each others spaces, filling themselves, and dissipating whenever he looked upon them. Sometimes he would starve himself because he would question whether this was in accordance with his spirit, with the beauty: he was utterly exhausted by it, but felt himself entirely committed towards the actions, the method of how these unseen voices prevailed him and produced from his body many ways and thoughts of kindness, of simplicity, and of how he was un-simple, and how he wished civilization unto himself, and was defeated again by this basic necessity to commit anything of consolation.

He did not know but felt: and was sure as he consoled himself that, "The consolation is that acknowledging both beauty and expression, and both can be either, and both cannot do without the other."

...