[other] red
Jan. 30th, 2007 10:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ib_archiveauthor, artist: abon (Dreamwidth)
Red
This morning we visited you. We are dreaming in a cold room. Our nails are leeched pale; our lips, fleshly gray. Midday, we stretch out flat on our backs on the floor and closed your eyes. The afternoon bloomed out and across, the universe. Violet algae made it bright, ultragreen, light. This is our favorite color.
You live in a world where all that we have been, and all that we are, are reducible to a word. Thoughts like little glass beads tumble through our fingers. This is the end. The films over our eyes multiply and cohere, and tumble. Try to fly. Blood in tiny, shiny points flecked your chin, crept down your shirt. We're seeping back on to the pages. Unlace our hands gently, gently.
The labor of unraveling a book, you chide, is hardly worth the trouble of jumbling through invisible isms and gullish argot. You recall those who, finding perfection impossible, lovingly craft each of their nightmares around a single flaw. We like entertaining your reflexive complaints. Flip the book open to a well-worn page. We left it half undone, in scrawls of gray charcoal.
Alive when they put me in, you said, when we had plucked enough of ourselves out of flurries of ink and fiber to ask what we should not have asked. We think making an amputative process. I must engineer away from extinction, you muttered into your cursive filigree. But what is required for flight in antiquity does not remain the same in the present. We've no interest in a purely functional creed. Take back the book and pretend to know, secrets there laid out. Then what secrets remain, let drop back into our hands. It is more than we may surrender.
Let us yield, we say unto you, another way. Gather us up, faded words and all. Of lightness and fastness, we swayed on the verge of bursting into fire or crumbling into powder. We started to mumble, useless pidgin spells, and you turn simply yourself, laughing breathlessly. You lived in the pitch dark? For a long time we thought you blind. Find us again. We will have put away those parts of ourselves that scintillate just so, like madness, you see. We'll shine from behind your eyes instead. Let the end come, our dreaming ended.
This morning we visited you. We are dreaming in a cold room. Our nails are leeched pale; our lips, fleshly gray. Midday, we stretch out flat on our backs on the floor and closed your eyes. The afternoon bloomed out and across, the universe. Violet algae made it bright, ultragreen, light. This is our favorite color.
You live in a world where all that we have been, and all that we are, are reducible to a word. Thoughts like little glass beads tumble through our fingers. This is the end. The films over our eyes multiply and cohere, and tumble. Try to fly. Blood in tiny, shiny points flecked your chin, crept down your shirt. We're seeping back on to the pages. Unlace our hands gently, gently.
The labor of unraveling a book, you chide, is hardly worth the trouble of jumbling through invisible isms and gullish argot. You recall those who, finding perfection impossible, lovingly craft each of their nightmares around a single flaw. We like entertaining your reflexive complaints. Flip the book open to a well-worn page. We left it half undone, in scrawls of gray charcoal.
Alive when they put me in, you said, when we had plucked enough of ourselves out of flurries of ink and fiber to ask what we should not have asked. We think making an amputative process. I must engineer away from extinction, you muttered into your cursive filigree. But what is required for flight in antiquity does not remain the same in the present. We've no interest in a purely functional creed. Take back the book and pretend to know, secrets there laid out. Then what secrets remain, let drop back into our hands. It is more than we may surrender.
Let us yield, we say unto you, another way. Gather us up, faded words and all. Of lightness and fastness, we swayed on the verge of bursting into fire or crumbling into powder. We started to mumble, useless pidgin spells, and you turn simply yourself, laughing breathlessly. You lived in the pitch dark? For a long time we thought you blind. Find us again. We will have put away those parts of ourselves that scintillate just so, like madness, you see. We'll shine from behind your eyes instead. Let the end come, our dreaming ended.
