Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Student Falah LiangOther/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 2 Years
Needs Premium Membership
Statistics 59 Deviations 134 Comments 5,933 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Random Favourites


:iconjsheaforrest: :iconalsosinceborn: :iconambrosefx: :iconslivius: :iconmoontoon: :iconnnuit: :iconkratosaurion29: :icondaidairo: :iconx-lollirot-x: :iconshinsworth: :iconciriun:


Falareste has started a donation pool!
1 / 9,001

No need for points- this is just a placeholder for my close readings/analyses of poems.

"I'm not much of a poet, nor am I much of a critic, but I believe strongly that the key to writing poetry well is reading it well- reading many different styles, from many different poets, and understanding how their poems are put together. There's far more to a good poem than a rhyme and a metaphor or two.

The poems I pick will not be from deviantART, but from known/published poets (some fringe poets as well as Frost, Williams, Keats, and so forth), though I do plan on doing some dA poetry features sometime.

List of close readings so far:
--I. Ars Poetica by Archibald MacLeish:…
--II. At Roane Head by Robin Robertson:…
--III. Evening Hawk by Robert Penn Warren:…

:bulletgreen:Updates every Friday/Saturday.

You must be logged in to donate.
  • :icondahub:
    Donated May 4, 2014, 9:58:56 PM

Journal History

Aka the last month of this semester, finals included. Just a small update to get that last entry off my page.

Made a B+ in a math class after two years of Cs. Thank counseling, friends (in-system and out), and learning to not worry about making As, and focusing on passing and actually doing my best instead.

Physical health is still in the gutters, emotional health has been on the upswing. Got back into painting and drawing (to be uploaded to my other account later), which has been doing wonders for my mood, which hopefully means writing will soon follow.

Currently busy packing for moveout. There's so much to clean! Systemmates would like to help, but we've been having trouble swapping around as of late, probably due to exhaustion. Oh well.

That's all at the moment.
  • Mood: Tired
  • Listening to: Pokemon ORAS Super Music Collection
  • Drinking: Water


Falareste's Profile Picture
Falah Liang
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
the sun rises in an ecstasy of brightness,
like a lion shaking its mane, like a chrysanthemum
discovering itself

-From Professor Berkowitz Stands on the Threshold by Theodora Goss
-- ~ --

STAMP: Non-Binary Pride by FlameExorcistDemisexual Stamp by sunbirds

Also known as
Falunel - Tales Forum (RIP), reddit, et al
Falunel.7645 - Guild Wars 2
PM me for my Skype.

multiplicity stamp by mythkin
-What is Multiplicity/Plurality?-

Old account --> :iconhalcyonadvent: :iconfalunel: <-- Non-lit account

Personal guidelines for writing poetry
Show, don't tell.
Say more with fewer words.
To write well, read more.
Learn from everything, and keep learning.

stamp: appreciation by BiggestNarutard
Reply Comments Stamp by Mirz123Forget Stuff Stamp + PLZ by Mirz123

If I am watching you (either here or as Falunel) and you would like me to add you as a friend, let me know!

Avatar taken from…
Profile picture manipulated from…
© 2012 ArenaNet, Inc. All rights reserved. NCsoft, the interlocking NC logo, ArenaNet, Guild Wars, Guild Wars Factions, Guild Wars Nightfall, Guild Wars: Eye of the North, Guild Wars 2, and all associated logos and designs are trademarks or registered trademarks of NCsoft Corporation. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.


Aka the last month of this semester, finals included. Just a small update to get that last entry off my page.

Made a B+ in a math class after two years of Cs. Thank counseling, friends (in-system and out), and learning to not worry about making As, and focusing on passing and actually doing my best instead.

Physical health is still in the gutters, emotional health has been on the upswing. Got back into painting and drawing (to be uploaded to my other account later), which has been doing wonders for my mood, which hopefully means writing will soon follow.

Currently busy packing for moveout. There's so much to clean! Systemmates would like to help, but we've been having trouble swapping around as of late, probably due to exhaustion. Oh well.

That's all at the moment.
  • Mood: Tired
  • Listening to: Pokemon ORAS Super Music Collection
  • Drinking: Water
And trying to wake up. Hello world--a lot's changed since we last met. Where do I begin?

The beginning--which in this case, would be when I first disappeared--is always a good place to begin, of course. But let's start a little bit before the beginning. Got to set the scene.

Warnings for emotional abuse, self-harm, suicidal ideation.

Some history of mine. I'd never had a good relationship with my parents. It's hard to write it all out without cringing inwardly or breaking down. A lot of it revolved around academics. Once came home with a B+ on a test everyone else had gotten Cs on and was told I was a failure and should be ashamed. There was a physical fear as well. I remember mother being shoved and falling, furniture being upended. 

Was told even back then to give up writing poetry if I wasn’t going to publish it because not being published meant I was a bad writer and it was a worthless pursuit. On top of all of this they forced me to tell them every day how wonderful they were as parents and warned, again and again, never to tell anyone what went in within the house.

Back then, it never got physical, but I still don't care to write it all out. Let's just say that even back then, I had fantasies that involved slicing an artery and bleeding all over the floor. Or making a rope from my hair and hanging myself from a balcony for all to see.

Anyway. Now to the beginning.

Picking up from this entry. Work became too much for writing. Leave the house at 7 AM, run tests and cut up mice and bacteria all day, come home at 7 PM. No energy left, especially with them looming nearby. Passed out whenever I hit my pillow.

On top of that, there was another sort of decay. Whenever I went to write, I heard my parents berating me to the point that it would cause me to break down and give up. There was always a feeling of "I shouldn't be doing this." "It's worthless anyway." "I'm wasting time--if I don't study all the time I'm going to fail everything and they're going to find out and hurt me." Always a constant feeling of worthlessness and danger.

On top of that: "I'm a failure for not sticking by my resolution to write. I will always be a failure. I should just give up while I'm ahead." And so I gave up. For the most part. I still managed to get scraps down every so often. Occasionally they would hit critical mass and coalesce into a poem, a tiny story, and I'd hoard it and hold it close, so so close. And I'd want to write again, then give up again whenever I hit those aforementioned blocks. I still came by this page. Every time I saw that someone had left a message or +fav'ed something, I wanted to cry. In a painful but good way. Thank you to everyone who stopped by. I mean it.

So I didn't write like I used to, but I still wrote a lot of things that were not stories or poetry. Articles, blog ramblings. Unelegant, rambling, but they got the point across. I took a place unofficially managing a subreddit or two, and did a lot of research and wrote a lot of theories on a certain psychological phenomena that grew more and more relevant as time went on. I wrote this. I also wrote this.

I suppose I could put in an aside. About plurality. Funny story, that. We--"we" being myself and the others in this head--did some digging into our origins and history. Turns out our psychological rabbit hole goes just a tad deeper than tulpamancy. "Multiple" describes us much better. Gray (who we now call Lark) especially wasn't "just an imaginary friend" back then. Imaginary friends tend not to have an almost-solid presence and/or take control of your body, after all. (Also a funny story. I was a naive ten-year-old. We decided to have some fun by letting him take over my hands and write out a conversation with a physical friend. It freaked people out, understandably. So we shut the door on bodysharing, though we couldn't throw the key away. Fortunately.) Suspecting that Steven and Rain are low-key splits (likely stress-induced in Steven's case) who latched onto fictive identities, given their talents and personalities. Not so sure about the other three.

In any case, there's seven of us in this brain now, four of whom--me, Lark, Steven, and Rain--use the body regularly. Are they fragments? Are they other consciousnesses? Are they spirits? I don't know. But I can say they're more than "just delusions". Lark's taken and held body control to keep me from harming myself during a panic attack; Rain will take front, write a program, and I'll come back and be surprised by a page of code that I don't remember. For what it's worth, we all consider ourselves individuals, albeit ones locked in the same head, and integration is out of the question for us, especially considering that being a relay team has helped us function better. I certainly would not be here right now without them.

(Also, before tumblr gets mentioned--we rather dislike, to put it lightly, the culture on tumblr, and I can promise you already that we're not going to pull crap like saying dumb things and then going "but my systemmate did that, I'm innocent!" as an excuse to worm out of trouble. As far as we're concerned, if you live in a plural system, then you are your brother's keeper and you take responsibility for what anyone else in the system does. Or things like "It's not my fault I didn't do X thing, because you told Y systemmate, not me"--again, shared responsibility, stuff gets done regardless of who was in front when we got told to do it.)

Maybe I'll write more about that later. Or maybe not--this is still my account and they're likely not going to do anything here, aside from being story subjects. So there's not much point.


Fast forward to November. Relations with parents hit an all-time low. On Thanksgiving I get pinned to a couch (marking the first time it's gotten physical) and interrogated about my grades. Happy Thanksgiving! I return to campus an utter wreck, flinching at every touch and breaking down constantly. I manage to get through my finals with the help of the others in the system, but just barely. Had a breakdown during the last exam they couldn't repress.

Fast forward to the first of January. We get a letter from school asking why my grades have gone to shit. Not going to go into details on everything that happened that day, but telling them I wanted to die and being told that I should was probably the nicest thing that happened that day. Happy New Year's, folks!

...I need a moment.

But yeah. Funny thing. They expected that to break me. It did, just not in the way they wanted. It was that which finally got me to dig through my past with everyone else here, going through all the nasty words, all the stealth insults, all the screaming, and realize at last that what had been happening my whole life constituted severe abuse. And that the myriad things messed up with me--the emptiness and sudden rages, the constant anxiety and hopelessness, the preoccupation with suicide--are probably a result of that.

Still fighting anxiety, still fighting apathy, still fighting emptiness, despair, rage, et al. Talking bluntly about this all, and being multiple and all the other "not respectable" things, instead of keeping it swept under the carpet because I've stopped caring. Not about life, no--there's things I still want to see and stuff I still want to do and people I still want to help. But it'll be really hard for an internet stranger to top the events of 1/1/2015. And who knows, maybe talking about this all will help someone else, somehow.

As it stands now, desensitization and not caring about what other people think has its perks. Doing better in school thanks to my systemmates, not-sharing-the-same-body friends, and a counselor who thinks our multiplicity is a good thing and has treated everyone like their own person, a thing that we're very grateful to her for. Suicidal urges have gone away for the most part, still fighting depression and anxiety in general. Things still aren't steady and there's still things going on that make me worried sick. (Actually literally sick right now and have about a dozen things I need to do--exams and projects, wheee.) But we'll see.

Glad to be (maybe) back.

-- Falah
A flash of silver feathers,
A gleam of golden flame;
In silence, he looks inwards;
And outwards, she takes aim.

And glancewise seems so bright and fair
The timbre of their thoughts;
Yet, both fast are bound:
He by flesh, she by care.

Within the shade, he waits to fade—
O what shall come of him?
She beats in rage against her cage—
O what shall come of her?
Those two, entwined until the end—
O, what shall come of them?
A depressing little ditty written with the help of the muse.

Been in a pretty poor place health- and life-wise as of late--thank goodness for friends. Let's see if I can get out of it long enough to finish Cycles of Calm (which I should have done long ago).
I debated myself on whether this was something worth posting to dA, and eventually decided that I would just post it as a journal rather than a deviation. Here is an essay of sorts written very recently for English 311 (aka Exposition), as part of an assignment on meaning via description--some of you may note parallels between this piece and the most recent Cycles of Calm entry, for which this essay was a good warm-up.


-The Winding Way-

Fairyland is real. I know this because, as a child, I made regular trips into that country during the summer. My family lived on the border between here and there, in a neighborhood of the sort favored by poets and new families: a small neighborhood, where everyone left cookie baskets on each other’s doorsteps at Christmas, and where, during Easter, we would spot deer watching us from the fringes as we gathered eggs, waiting for us to finish so that they could get back to the business of eating the best seedlings in our garden.

As expected, I spent much of my time outdoors as a child, as this was before the Internet became more than a word (or the place where my brother spent all his time, for reasons I would later understand all too well) to me. At first, I spent my time building miniature grass forts and tying dandelion rings in the front yard, but my imagination soon outgrew our lawn, and—due to it being a safe neighborhood—I was permitted to head up the hill to play with a neighbor’s golden retriever. She was too old and sagely for my antics, though, and soon I grew bored again, and began to wander ever further from my house.

To the north of the neighborhood lay woods, and a trail surrounded by tall grass, which the adults forbade the children of the neighborhood to enter alone on account of the wild animals that lived there. We could take the path, though, under the supervision of an adult or one of the older children. I made a friend (who I still remember vividly) who counted as something in between, either a young adult or an older-older child. In either case, he was qualified to accompany me along the path in the late summer afternoons, to walk with me until the sky deepened and the first fireflies began to glow.

How far along the path we walked varied per day, and there was plenty of path to walk. The first part of the path wound, riverlike, through abandoned fields, through seed-heavy grasses that swayed above my head. Passing by, we would hear the barking, chirruping, or squawking of the animals that dwelt behind the grass. We never stopped in the first section of the path—instead, we would amble onwards to where the forest began, to where the old, old mulberry trees grew. They belonged to no one, and so we were free to pick mulberries and eat them under the trees while listening to the animals. My friend knew much about the animals who lived there—which voice belonged to whom, what food each of them liked—and often, we would stop there, and he would tell me their names.

Sometimes, though, we would walk onward, leaving the fields behind and venturing deeper into the pleasant shade of the forest. The forest itself was half-wild, but friendly, and though its vines patterned the path, its trees never completely blocked out the sky. Here, the barking and squawking gave way to chirping and trilling, and my friend would pause, head cocked, to listen for and name this or that bird. Each time, he would mourn that I could not see them. He brought along an Audubon squeaker, and kissed the edge of his little finger—a tactic that he swore worked everywhere else, despite how ridiculous he looked—but no birds answered the call. Only once did we spot one, a tiny, loud-voiced swallow with a brilliant red chest and throat, who flew off shortly afterwards.

Many clearings dappled the woods towards their end, and here and there we could glimpse an aged bench or a leaf-covered slide. Further along the path laid a meadow with a small barn and a wheelbarrow out front, both of which were always, I remember, in excellent shape. We never saw the family to which they must have belonged, and so when we walked along the path and saw the wheelbarrow resting in a different spot each time, I imagined that it had a life of its own. My friend said nothing to disprove this. Instead, as the trees gave way to homely gardens and mossy ponds, we talked about more mundane things—my classmates, my teachers, the oppressively short recesses, the onset of that academic tax called homework.

He would listen patiently to all I had to say, smiling—enough to encourage, never enough to patronize. “I think you’re doing great,” he would say afterwards. “Keep it up—you really are doing better than you think.” They were words I always took for granted, back in those days. Further ahead, the path crested upwards, almost too slowly to notice, and then we would find ourselves atop a hill, watching the path drop away and snake though the meadows. In the distance, on the other end, there sprawled the darkly glinting roofs of another neighborhood. Here was where we always stopped, sometimes to take in the view, always to eventually turn back and head back down the path, back through the woods, back through the fields to our neighborhood. There was no reason for us to go further.

I spent two summers visiting that path before my father found a job at a major teaching hospital. Then we moved, my family and I, and for years I was shut up in a gated neighborhood where, both within and outside its walls for miles beyond, the trees grew only in neat rows and fountains dotted the lakes rather than fish.

One day, when I am free to buy flights of my own, I may return to my Fairyland and walk along the path again, seeing what has or has not changed. The mulberry trees, I am certain, will still be there, still bearing their best fruit on the branches that are too high for me to reach on my own. The neighborhood that I watched from the hill, too, will still stand—I cannot speak for the wheelbarrow. The fields may be ever more overgrown, or their wildness may have been trimmed back. But they will still be there, creaking in the wind.

But there are others I am not so certain about. My memories may have been distorted by time, as I remember a raccoon we saw with jagged black stripes, and frogs that wore lilypads for hats. I remember butterflies larger than I have ever seen elsewhere, and a creature with fur—hair?—as green as a lime, that dove back into the grass as we passed by. I do not even know if I remember my friend correctly, or even if I am remembering him at all—if I am not imagining him instead. For when I remember him, I remember him—a young man—with silver hair.

It is all real to me, though. It is as real as the house I lived in after we moved away from that neighborhood—real as the gold-flecked black marble countertops, real as the elaborate, twisted, wrought-iron railings, real as the enormous picture windows flanking the living room, from which I would sometimes hear a thud and through which I would see a bird lying in the grass with a broken neck. It is as real as the unlit closet I would, late at night, find my mother crying in, sometimes because of my father, sometimes because of me. It is all real, necessarily so.

And it will continue to be real, even if—when—I return. I do not expect to see raccoons with spiky fur, or butterflies larger than my hand. I do not know if I will see my friend, though I will stand under the mulberry trees and try to remember all that he told me. I will stand there, between the forest and the fields or upon a hill, listening to a sound like howling, and remember that it was all real, real.

  • Listening to: Night in the Woods - Preview
In the years that were bright, the years Frost described as gold-before-the-green, we lived half here, in this world, and half in Lothlorien.

Not the original Lothlorien, of course. Even at eight years old, I knew that I could not reach Lothlorien on foot, at least not in a matter of minutes. Perhaps if I followed the sun westward long enough, I would find Lothlorien, and perhaps Rivendell, and perhaps even the Havens, but not in time to get back home for dinner. So, instead, we created--found--our own Lothlorien.

In the late afternoons, I would sit beneath the trees in our front yard, and Gray would join me, settling quietly beside me without rustling the grass. And I would dream. I did not know then that the trees were called mellyrn, or that the flowers were called elanor--however, I knew the colors of Lothlorien, and that was enough. I dreamed of the trees around us rising, rising, their bark turning silver and their leaves upon their spreading limbs turning golden. Around us, near and far away, the houses would fade like mist, and more trees would grow in their place. At our feet sprouted white and gold flowers, and white and silver trellises that twined up the trees and blossomed into buildings.

Then, without moving, we would rise like souls from where we sat, and walk through our dream, our Lothlorien--through the low-hanging leaves, through the shimmering air that, even in the summer, I imagined as having a faint chill.

There was no one to challenge us. We never came across any Elven guards or patrols, though if we stood still, we could hear them singing, far away. The realm was ours alone to wander, to pick flowers and climb trees and splash through its streams and laze in its blossom-filled meadows. Ours, until I heard the front door open, and my mother's voice chastising me for falling asleep in the grass again, and getting dirt all over my clothes yet again, when would I start paying attention like the rest of the girls? But back indoors, I would reach for the dream again, and the trees would break through the tiles and through the ceiling, and their limbs, together with the flowering vines, would twine around the walls and squeeze them into dust. Pictures, paintings, calendars would fall from their hangers and the grass and bushes and flowers would grow over them. Photo albums would fall from their shelves and be swept away by a river gushing through the doors. Nothing would be left but the foundations, covered in moss and leaves, and we would resume our wanderings.

We never saw guards, but we did see Galadriel once, from a distance. I only remember that her face was full of light. Then she turned away.

I do not remember why we stopped living in Lothlorien. Perhaps it was school, where each year, it became harder to wander off in dreams. Or--perhaps a simpler and, thus, more likely explanation--it became harder to wander off in dreams, no matter where we were. No matter where we went. We created other realms, but never dreamed them, and they were never Lothlorien. All our time away, I did not realize the years were passing there as well--the mellyrn withering, the elanor petals falling like leaves. The realm, abandoned, sinking into silence.

And then, years later, we returned, and breathed the dust.
[Camp NaNo, Story 14] Elapse
Oh hi.

About: A continuation of my July Camp NaNoWriMo project which went on hiatus due to familial reasons. I'm not trying for a word count--rather, I'm hoping to write thirty at-least-semi-coherent flash fictions with an at-least-semi-coherent common thread, collectively titled Cycles of Calm.

I plan on posting the more readable drafts to my account under a separate folder specifically for Camp NaNoWriMo. A few things of note: 

Bullet; BlackAll of these postings are drafts. I am allowing myself to break the golden rule of NaNo and edit my work as I go (including -gasp- deleting words), but I still consider them to be in a rough, unfinished state--as such, I am not looking for critique on my NaNo work. Hopefully, I'll be able to revisit each of my NaNo stories after the event ends and finish polishing them, in which case they will then be open to critique.

Bullet; BlackWhy am I posting these if I consider them unfinished? Motivation, partially--a log of sorts for myself, and another way to hold myself accountable if I don't keep up with my goal. I'm also posting them in hopes that someone will find the contrasts between the drafts and the polished pieces interesting.

Bullet; BlackAbout Camp NaNoWriMo and NaNoWriMo

Bullet; BlackDay 13: Innocence
Bullet; BlackArchive for Cycles of Calm

AdCast - Ads from the Community


Add a Comment:
Litwick-Kindly Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2014
Keep Going! Hang in there! You're an exceptionally talented writer and I believe you can achieve your nanowrimo goal. I'm excited to see what you come up with
amour-raven Featured By Owner May 7, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the fav on seasoned! :heart:
Sserenita Featured By Owner May 6, 2014  Professional General Artist
Hi, its me again! :D

Welcome to
 deviantHEART! Heart Be sure to review our Membership Guidelines to make the best of our Group. If you have any questions or suggestions to improve the group, feel free to let me or any other admin know. Stay positive! Hug
Falareste Featured By Owner May 11, 2014  Student Writer
Hallo, stranger!

Glad to be aboard. :)
Sserenita Featured By Owner May 6, 2014  Professional General Artist
Welcome to The-Feature-Showcase! Be sure to review our rules and group info to make the most of our group. If you have any questions or need assistance, feel free to let me or any other administrator know! 
Falareste Featured By Owner May 11, 2014  Student Writer
Thanks! :happybounce:
Campbe Featured By Owner May 5, 2014  Student Writer
Hoy! Thanks a lot for reading my poetry - I'm glad you liked it. :]
SimplySilent Featured By Owner May 4, 2014
Thank you for the points. They'll be put to good use. :aww:
Falareste Featured By Owner May 5, 2014  Student Writer
It was my pleasure! :heart:
DrippingWords Featured By Owner Apr 27, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you for the watch! :heart:
Add a Comment: