Paints.
Date: Nov 30th, 2005 1:09:19 am - Subscribe
Mood: Universal.
Music: Patrick Wolf - "Pigeon Song"
Standing on the edge a cliff, peering off into the deep blue distance. Storm clouds roll in on top off the liquid abyss. Lightning emerges and quickly scatters across the ominous sky. Winds blow against the towering rocks, swaying the small amounts of brush that reach out for life. Shades of blue and green seem to lag behind their designated forms.
Blank.
Running as fast as your legs can carry you through the forest, yet you can barely move. The muscles and joints in your legs are as stiff as nails and heavier than bricks. The smell of the coniferous trees is powerful. Scents of fir, spruce and pine take control of the air. Something is coming quick behind, but the being is unknown. Making way through the woods, your feet smash puddles, kick up mud and leave your trail.
Blank.
Behind the wheel. White and red lights are everywhere to be seen. Red staying steady in front with white fast approaching to the left. Rain is coming down hard on the windshield. The wipers can barely keep up with the flood from above. The passenger is talking about past events. By the time he is finished with a sentence, you have completely forgotten what he said. In fact, you've completely forgotten what has happened. Time and memories just slip right away. Your mind just decides to discard these thoughts. The face of the passenger is so familiar, but the name does not match the memory. It's almost like you see this person everyday, but have almost no idea who they are. It doesn't matter though, because you are too busy examining the person next to you to notice the white lights getting brighter and brighter until they explode on the front of your vehicle.
Blank.
The comforts of home relax the mind. Everything is at peace inside your head. Reds, oranges, and yellows are hanging on the walls. The details from your own very home are placed in their proper place. Maybe it is home. But how can home fit into microscopic tunels and strings? How can home be composed of electric pulses? Somehow it is, and everone there enjoys it. No one knows where exactly they are or why except for you. You have the puzzle solved and all the pieces in place. For once you have the ability to control this world. You can make choices and interact with others, when really you are just interacting with yourself.
Blank.
Now you find yourself in a past home. These memories haven't come up in months, but are now a three dimensional picture with emotion. Everyone from this memory is there, all following their paths that they were assigned. Everything is set up for you. An entire plot all planned out. You're the star of the theatrical play, but you never got to read the script.
Blank.
Gliding above the city below. A song begins to play that has been in your head for the past couple of days. In this sense, you are meeting that song in your head. The lights glow and sparkle. They grow a little dimmer, and you grow a little heavier. The more the lights dim, the more you fall. Once they're out, the ground pulls you forward.
Blank.
The knife is raised high and brought down deep. The blade slices right through the flesh. Once you look down at the gruesome mess, you can begin to feel the knife. It's cold metal ripping the insides of your body to shreds. The pain shoots right through your chest. Your hand reaches out to pull the knife out. Stuck on the knife is your pulsating heart. It's still pumping the blood through your veins even though it's outside your flesh. Every pulse that you see allows you to feel the blood pump through you.
Blank.
Everything is fake. All of it unrealistic. Animals are talking and people are crawling. Some of this comes off quite humorous while some it is down right scary. Anything you can ever imagine seems quite possible. The only problem is that you don't have a grasp on your imagination. Your imagination is running wild. It's all around you, everywhere you look. Now you walk amonst your imagination. Anyone would find it strange to see their thoughts portrayed in front of them. To be inside their thoughts. Not everyone remembers this.
Blank.
Your eyes open to the dim room you were always in. Eight hours of laying in a bed has turned into a slew of adventures that lasted hours, days or even weeks. Thoughts lay scattered about. It's almost as if you had been gone in a whole different universe complete with tons of worlds and events of it's own. I suppose this is true. You have just created this universe without ever realizing it. Convincing yourself that you haven't left your bed this entire time can be a little hard. Even dissapointing.
Now it's time to life in this universe. Possibly someone else's. Possibly someone else's illusion that lays on a pillow on top of another matress.
Comments: (4)
phantasmic - November 30th, 2005 |
anonymous - November 30th, 2005 |
anonymous - November 30th, 2005 |
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playwright - December 07th, 2005 |
