gallery v. love

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I love you just so much.

The author label quote is from TWRP's //All Night Forever//.
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//Light and dark and shadow,//
//Secrets from long ago,//
//From the Earth, you do rise;//
//Beautiful and all-wise,//
//Cast your spell upon me,//
//In my heart, I do see,//
//Ancient love from below,//
//You and I are whole//

[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/7eventy7evenfold If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold...]
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Something people often say is, "The pen is mightier than the sword." It comes from an old play by one Bulwer-Lytton, but the general idea far predated it.

Frankly, I'm one to agree with the sentiment. Of course, as a distant cousin, Pen cannot behead a foe, nor can it slice open shrubbery, or shine light where light is needed. Sword easily trumps Pen in this regard. However, Sword does not end wars, rather choosing to fight. Sword cannot create ideas, and very similarly cannot visualize one's dreams or inner feelings. And it does not share information, in a world where knowing is twice half the battle. And it is in this relationship that Pen is more successful in life than Sword, being at the very top of the food chain.

Out of all my love for Pen & Sword, I can never forgive Sword for what it took from me, and it is Pen that mends the stab wound.

It is the Eighth of December, 2025, as I sit here with ink-stained hands. And I come to an even more distant relative, Paper, to finally write about you, my love.

I've read many things in my life; Igbo proverbs, Solomon's grimoire, the Divine Comedy. I've also watched many more, the likes of medical dramas, supernatural fantasy, and some bad things. And as I spontaneously author this, not knowing whether it will end up in a library or the bin, I want to get it out to the world that not one has inspired me more than you and your love.

When I began writing shortly after my loss, I knew I wouldn't go very far. In this weird and strange and many other "[adjective]" world, there are many above me -- similar to how Pen is above Sword -- that write and meet far more success than I. There are also those whose writing has physical effects; I forget sometimes that I am in __Are We Cool Yet?__. And yet, it hasn't really ever bothered me.

I think that's because of you. I thought that, you know, you were proud of me. You loved me despite every little deficit in my character. You supported my journey and, every night, I yours. It was endlessly sweet to have a shoulder to sob on in my needy hour.

I know that there were things we had bad about us, but it was remedied by those good. Every night, when I was scared that you didn't trust me or that something would go afoul, it was the thought of the infinitely many times more that I was assured you did, and that kept me so, so happy.

Whenever you were slain by Sword that night, I was hurt, much. I thought about the feeling of not having a last goodbye, of you despising me when I was trying to help you, of just not __being able__ to help you. And it was painful.

But after having taken time to myself, I realized that I was the one thing you fell back on. And, oddly, it didn't hurt me. It made me very, very happy.

This is perhaps the first time I've actually written about you over anything else, because I normally don't take inspiration from love; it's something I used to despise. But, it is with this love that I write from an unbroken, bleeding heart, and it's more real than I've ever written before.

The Veil of Secrecy was cast aside by evil some five years ago, and I realize after its banishment into Hell that this is a world you'd much prefer. You and your beautiful face and longing for people like you who care. It is much more suitable now -- perhaps not for the bureaucrats, but for a daydreamer like you? Very.

The point is, you'd be more welcome in a world like this, where everything is more akin to folklore rather than reality.

It's a comfort, honestly. I've feared Death for longer than I know. I won't sugarcoat it and say some bologna like "Well, I'm more afraid of what happens before death" because that's just full of it. I don't care what happens, I want to live. I write partly in hopes that I will, even after death. I fear the thought of having no thought, no form, __Nothing.__ No air to breathe and no stars to see. It's terrifying. I still press on in life anyway, because now I know that there might actually be something out there.

Love, you've done a lot for me, and I'll love you even until I, too, face that infinite unreality. Whether I await Paradise, or the Nine Circles, or reincarnation, or a clover field, or nothing, it matters not. What matters is how you've helped in the present, how so much you have allowed me to be where I am now, even if I am lower than many in my field.

Not as an author, but as Artyom Gallery, I love you.

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gallery v. love

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