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12-20-2016, 03:30 PM
som ljuset från andromeda . . .
He wants to burn it all.
He wants to watch the fire lick along slender green stalks, to watch the snow sizzle and evaporate; to see it a barren wasteland, a dark landscape of ash. He wants to see the cinders blown through burned-out, broken husks by the brittle, acrid wind.
He wants to scorch it, destroy it—
—but it is his heart he wants to burn.
Black soot lining empty chambers as nothing is left of the love and life echoing within it now. Just charred flesh; nothing more, nothing less. Lifeless. Free, from the anchor tugging him to the bottom of his sea. Free, from the snake's fangs pushing its poison deeper and deeper into his heart with each beat. Magic and willows could numb the pain of his body. They could render his flesh literally senseless.
There's no metaphorical suture. There's no cure for the disease of a mind. There's no analgesic for the soul.
- - - - - - - - -
She came like a small, white angel, a blur of innocence in the darkness of his past world—a ray of silver moonlight, an ironic analogy, breaking up the vast green world he found himself relentlessly assaulting.
They always brought out the 'best' in him, those others falling like blessed snowflakes on his infernal form. Perhaps they thought they offered respite from the monster roaring out its pain within, but all they did was bring more chains to fetter the beast; the manacles had since long rubbed skin and flesh from the bones.
Of course it screamed. It was in pain, in the tears burning unshed in his dry eyes, in the prickling heat-lump in his throat—yet time again as they came, he pushed it back.
For what would it look like, if they thought they couldn't help? If he didn't even seem to try? If he stood there in the middle of a foreign forest they had fought so hard for, and tried to tear it all down?
So he ceased. Let his dark lips fall back over blunt teeth, tongue tasting the strange and awful sap, and her soft muzzle touched the bony plane of his shoulder.
Too thin. Barely any muscle between her nose and the bone beneath.
"If you needed food Mauja, all you had to do was ask," and his ears pinned without him wanting it. He wanted to break away from her comforting, loving touch, to scream in her face that he didn't want food, he wanted to destroy—
He didn't. He felt the beast relent, dragged back into the darkness, away from the light it had so briefly felt stroking its angry, wounded face.
"Myrrine," he said quietly, his voice so calm, not matching the trapped blaze in his eyes. Where had she been? Why was she back, and why did he find her here, instead of the Edge? The question laid upon his tongue, but he swallowed it again. Part of him didn't want to know. It might hurt.
He had had enough of that.
He closed his eyes. Her muzzle touched his cheek.
What could have been. He shook his head slowly. He had rarely mourned what could have been.
He mourned what had been. What irrevocably, mercilessly was no more. Did it matter if it could be again? Having something to fix only gave him purpose.
As someone living in the past, he always missed out on the present, only appreciated it when it became memory, forever out of reach. Still, his heart tried to punch its way out through his ribs, foolishly hoping to grasp what had slipped beyond its reach.
“Sometimes the past is just better.”
Mauja opened his sad eyes. They said forget him, they said remember him, but no one told him how to breathe while he did it.
"The past is just the past," he said quietly after a while, studying the round sides of Chernobyl—a mare he had not known to be warm or social at all, yet pregnant she was, and out of self-preservation for his own fragile sanity he chose to disregard the possibility of rape. "I think it's just regret tying us to it."
No one told him how to let go of it, either.
[ @Myrrine @Chernobyl ]
He wants to burn it all.
He wants to watch the fire lick along slender green stalks, to watch the snow sizzle and evaporate; to see it a barren wasteland, a dark landscape of ash. He wants to see the cinders blown through burned-out, broken husks by the brittle, acrid wind.
He wants to scorch it, destroy it—
—but it is his heart he wants to burn.
Black soot lining empty chambers as nothing is left of the love and life echoing within it now. Just charred flesh; nothing more, nothing less. Lifeless. Free, from the anchor tugging him to the bottom of his sea. Free, from the snake's fangs pushing its poison deeper and deeper into his heart with each beat. Magic and willows could numb the pain of his body. They could render his flesh literally senseless.
There's no metaphorical suture. There's no cure for the disease of a mind. There's no analgesic for the soul.
- - - - - - - - -
She came like a small, white angel, a blur of innocence in the darkness of his past world—a ray of silver moonlight, an ironic analogy, breaking up the vast green world he found himself relentlessly assaulting.
They always brought out the 'best' in him, those others falling like blessed snowflakes on his infernal form. Perhaps they thought they offered respite from the monster roaring out its pain within, but all they did was bring more chains to fetter the beast; the manacles had since long rubbed skin and flesh from the bones.
Of course it screamed. It was in pain, in the tears burning unshed in his dry eyes, in the prickling heat-lump in his throat—yet time again as they came, he pushed it back.
For what would it look like, if they thought they couldn't help? If he didn't even seem to try? If he stood there in the middle of a foreign forest they had fought so hard for, and tried to tear it all down?
So he ceased. Let his dark lips fall back over blunt teeth, tongue tasting the strange and awful sap, and her soft muzzle touched the bony plane of his shoulder.
Too thin. Barely any muscle between her nose and the bone beneath.
"If you needed food Mauja, all you had to do was ask," and his ears pinned without him wanting it. He wanted to break away from her comforting, loving touch, to scream in her face that he didn't want food, he wanted to destroy—
He didn't. He felt the beast relent, dragged back into the darkness, away from the light it had so briefly felt stroking its angry, wounded face.
"Myrrine," he said quietly, his voice so calm, not matching the trapped blaze in his eyes. Where had she been? Why was she back, and why did he find her here, instead of the Edge? The question laid upon his tongue, but he swallowed it again. Part of him didn't want to know. It might hurt.
He had had enough of that.
He closed his eyes. Her muzzle touched his cheek.
What could have been. He shook his head slowly. He had rarely mourned what could have been.
He mourned what had been. What irrevocably, mercilessly was no more. Did it matter if it could be again? Having something to fix only gave him purpose.
As someone living in the past, he always missed out on the present, only appreciated it when it became memory, forever out of reach. Still, his heart tried to punch its way out through his ribs, foolishly hoping to grasp what had slipped beyond its reach.
“Sometimes the past is just better.”
Mauja opened his sad eyes. They said forget him, they said remember him, but no one told him how to breathe while he did it.
"The past is just the past," he said quietly after a while, studying the round sides of Chernobyl—a mare he had not known to be warm or social at all, yet pregnant she was, and out of self-preservation for his own fragile sanity he chose to disregard the possibility of rape. "I think it's just regret tying us to it."
No one told him how to let go of it, either.
[ @Myrrine @Chernobyl ]
