⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝚁𝚄𝙻𝙴𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚁𝙴𝙶𝚄𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 ･ﾟ✧ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⋆ 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨: i’m extremely picky about this, and yes, i will roleplay with anime characters of other universes/fandoms. friendships are also strongly encouraged and i’m more than willing to converse and form connections with you (not-so) wonderful human beings. :)
⋆ 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨/𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙩𝙨: i’m not as selective about the storylines that i write out with others. pretty much the only plot ideations i will /not/ engage in are sexual and/or romantic storylines, as i am in love with someone else and have no interest in betraying him like that. he is not afraid to hop out of the wwe fandom and come for your neck if you so much dare try anything flirtatious with me. be careful, you’ve been warned..
⋆ 𝙨𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨: as long as you’re literate and you can form a sentence correctly with a decent amount of detail, i’d be happy to write with you. grammatical errors and misspellings don’t usually bother me too much, unless it happens often. also, don’t attempt to control my character unless you want the roleplay to be terminated without hesitation. ⠀⠀⠀⠀
⋆ 𝙦𝙪𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙮: basically, if i write out an entire paragraph, i expect the same from the other party. it’s extremely time-consuming to add so much detail and elaboration to a response and it ticks me off to receive only three sentences in a reply. inform me otherwise if you’re having writers block or something that relates to that, and i’ll understand. please and thank you.
Nayub kept his maroon prayer rug right under his bed, neatly folded, he learned to spread it without any creases from Abdul Miya. It had golden coloured flower patterns. He'd often come to my house hours before Sehri and go on about how Murtuja begum got him a new one from laal market.
And while being hungry, he'd religiously inhale Ma's Bajre ki Roti and Kadhi pakoda. He'd share with me how his Ammi made the best Kheer Korma and how his Abba would come home early from office, wash his hands longer than he usually does and wear his off-white chikan kurta pyajama.
Nayub was happiest during the Sehri. From the window of my room, I'd see yellow reflection of Murtuja Begum preparing the morning meals in her kitchen. And while she did her chores with such ease, Abdul uncle would come outside his house and look at the clear sky seeking independent blessings.
And while Begum made enough for her family of three, she made sure she shared Nayub's favourite fruit chaat with me. Even during Ramadan, he brought his lunch box full of Masala chaat or Kheer or Dahi bhalla and even Kadhai with leftover Naan.
Witnessing their dawn ritual, when one day I couldn't take it anymore. I took the mat Ma used to pray in front of our god, idols she had carefully placed in our temple, and went up to Abdul Miya's house to be a part of their Sehri. And while Nayub sat on his mat bowing down to his god, I sat on mine to pray the ones Ma did. We never felt any different. Sehri was now our ritual, together.
A me ha sempre colpito questa faccenda dei quadri. Stanno su per anni, poi senza che accada nulla, ma nulla dico, fran, giù, cadono. Stanno lì attaccati al chiodo, nessuno gli fa niente, però loro a un certo punto cadono giù come sassi. Nel più assoluto silenzio, con tutto immobile intorno, non una mosca che vola, e loro, fran.
Non c'è una ragione. Perché proprio in quell'istante?
A.B. - Novecento