petrichor ; enmortals application

welcome to petrichor.

this is my application

to the enmortals.

i apologise if there are any

errors. i originally

planned to apply for

requests, but i realised

when writing this

i went off course

so along with other

reasons i have

decided to change.

please enjoy.

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The sun shines above them, shimmering rays dancing across the deep blue waters as their brothers and sisters gently wake all who still lay in peaceful slumber.

He sits crouched by the lake, slowly placing his clothing in the water and allowing the crystal liquids to cleanse the garments of the coats of the dirt adorning them. As a worker on the farms, his clothes are regularly dirtied by his grimy living, so the journey to the washing lake is one he takes frequently, so frequently he is certain he could complete it with his eyes closed.

Today, he has an extra load, as he pulled off a successful business deal with Hanbyul, another worker with skin that shines almost as brilliantly as his own, to wash her clothes on her behalf in exchange for half of her lunch. He wonders if he should have requested less of her portion, for her load consists of a mere three items. Nonetheless, what's done is done. He ought not to feel contrite; after all, she was well aware of the size of her load when she made the deal, and only fools would revoke a deal which disproportionately benifts them.

As the hours elapse, the boy lingers by the lake, silently eyeing the valley in which he is blessed enough to have spent these past years. It's a wondrous sight to this world of pained dishevelment. Its sloping hills, their luscious green reflecting in the pools of crystal water below, are said by the locals to have been carved by God himself, carefully curated with its never-ending forests and water gently cascading into the lake below. One could walk to the hills and stay among their heavenly surroundings until the inevitable sound of death knocks on their door, stay for the rest of time, a blissful conclusion to their troubled lives. It's a pity that so many will live and die, ignorant to the hand-crafted treasures laying so close, yet so far from their shaking grasps.

A woeful sigh elicits from him, wafting through the air with a sort of bittersweet serenity to it. He drags a bronzed hand through his darkened hair. He feels the drop of sweat trickling down his palm and into his already damp hair, the corollary of the sweltering rays projected across the land by the blazing sun. In the distance, he hears the gleeful chatter of the birds, happy chirps for a peaceful, carefree lifestyle of the skies. How he envies them. How he longs for their blissful way of life, free from labour and pain. For all the joy he finds in the farm, the unchanging companionship to drag him through his days, there's many a moment where he simply wants to fly away. He wants to be free, if only for a fleeting moment.

Alas, the sweet reality he so craves will never quite be reality. Though he lives a life of tranquillity, of companionship and silent mindfulness, the free existence which has always had a place in his utmost desires lays just beyond his reach.

He feels a wave of guilt crash on the shores of his good conscience, her perpetual discontent to the foregoing a testimony to his self-confessed ungraciousness for his good fortune. His gratidude and ungraciousness rises and falls with each ing moment, like a rollercoaster tumbling along the delicately carved hills. The harsh reality of outside life is an achingly familiar subject, for he was taught since childhood how lucky he is to be blessed with an existence within the gaping hills and rich scenery of his home. He knows how fortunate he is, holds an adoration for his home which goes entirely unrivalled, but he's always felt called by the birds, princes of the sky with so much freedom, so much excitement. Perhaps, one day, his time will come. One day he will find the same freedom enjoyed by those free the burden of labour. But not today. Not today.

The peaceful hymns of the birds come to an eventual close, rendering the steady swaying of the trees in the soft wind the only sound reaching his ears. It evokes an immediate a sense of calm, newfound tranquillity gently wafting through the gently swaying air. The emotional rollercoaster of his impossible desire seems to take a turn, leaving his distaste for his mundane life in brief solitude. It prompts thoughts of his luck, his good karma to have ended up in this life. It reminds him of his peaceful, safe life, a painful contrast to the impoverished souls laying just miles away. Their lives are so different, and he is so lucky. He ought not to take it for granted. The chance of coming into a world such as his own, amongst heavy odds of poverty and rampant violence, was slim, and yet it was offered to him. He doesn't suppose he deserves it. Doesn't deserve this simple yet rich existence, when all he wishes for is to be in the skies. But he can't push the thoughts out his mind, cannot, with all his might, expel his dreams.

And so, once again burdened with defeat and riddled with guilt, Kim Jongin trudges down the hill, drying clothes bunched under his toned arms as he enters the farm to the steady soundtrack of twigs crunching beneath his feat.

Scarcely a head turns at his arrival, save the sunkissed woman of youthful exuberance, a small smile of half hearted gratitude gracing her soft features as Jongin drops her clothes in front of her, wordlessly taking his share of her lunch before heading to the fields to work his guilt away.

The raging sun, its sultry rays just as violent a heat as the early morning, blazes down on him as he uncomfortably crouches, bare feet press in lightly into the dry ground. His back aches as he hunches over the plants he works on, legs straining under the pressure. Nonetheless, he persists.

Hours elapse, time a fragile mystery as it melts away under the blazing sun, yet his labour never ceases. The harmonious chirps of the birds linger in his mind, their mellifluous voices a bittersweet contrast to the farm, which lays in silence, aside from the pained groans eliciting from a frail old woman a few metres away from him. He offers her a small smile, of sympathy and heartache, but she doesn't look up.

He feels his heart wrench at her pitiful sounds. Wretched and pained, they are a commonplace on the farm, a familiar ache to their burning ears. She is a misfortuned woman; plagued with illness yet forced to work to her young granddaughter. She has a stark determination to ensure comfort in the child's life, and so will work until her own death so she does not have to. Alas, it is a naturally fruitless mission, for the girl will be thrown onto the farm the moment her only provider is no more. It is the depressing reality of even the most tranquil of places.

When Jongin walks onto the farm the next day, the woman is gone. In her place, a young girl sits at the bushes, bitter sobs ringing throughout the farm. So is the way of the world.

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