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Posted by DeadHokuto at 22:21:16 07/12/2002.
I originally STARTED writing this for literature class, but as you can see.. it just wasn't appropriate after I got going with it. :d Bandwagon snippets!
Birds
I have been happy, though in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things.…
Dreams, Edgar Allen Poe
The small shape of a huddled young man kneeled in the illusionary abyss, grassland somewhere in northern Japan. The scenery must have been somewhat naturally drear.. since all things seemed the color of seashells here, grays, and while washed away with sand and grit to a waxy white. Like his face, that same white and fair as if dead, alike to those abandoned seashells.
His entire life lived in dreams.
Long, sallow and ruining slowly with sickness, fingers traced over-sensitive nerves above the ground, shining a melancholy half hearted blue glow of veins over the dirt scrawled message of his name. Not his own, but a name with value to him.
“Seishirou-san.”
The only name that mattered in the inclusiveness of time.
Birds suddenly took flight, and he wondered. As he thought of them, the sky was full of blackbirds and doves, wandering blades of feathers and sound, monochrome wings of deep gray and black, whites like pale discolored clothes made of flesh. Visions of an airy journey clouded indistinct ideas of his own instead when a single feather fell, reduced to ashes by the wind carrying flames of neighboring bonfires. He crushed it’s fibers full of charcoal with a fist, now dirty with remains of flight.
He saw the decay in his hands, on his hands. Twisting it between fingers, dirtying the cigarette, he lit it and inhaled, sweetly and deeply. On the air and the birds was Death, and in smoldering release was the memory of Seishirou’s scent, masculine and rough. The young man knew these things, and knew himself to be mad as well. What was it to the birds and ghosts in those days, to be counted as one of a few and many unlikely individuals witness?
He saw his face.
The handsome face becoming so far away told him he was going out again. Like a broken light. Like a broken piece of sweet cake. A child’s mouth in pink gauze colors, a writer at his desk sipping the fruits of reward and dropping the pen that became the bird with wings, and it burned out as soon as he did. Like a broken child he held himself, that which was himself had become a memory of when those lovely written things were common.
And then, music.
He became drowsy and faint ---a common enough occurrence--- and fell to the grass with a small stabbing pain in each of his fingers, strangely erotic in how the hurt spread up his arm and stopped, melted sugar in his veins. He wanted to hurt more, to feel that ecstatic thrill of torturing oneself with no desire to please, pretending it was someone else there. Shuddering, fingers entered. He imagined the string of muscle pulling like the filaments on a harp.. the quiet aching music he heard roaring in his ears, so he couldn’t hear himself think and began to wail over the sound, screaming louder, and louder..
“God..!” his voice broke.
There was a mess above his eyes. Floating silk and sunshine, blue colored breeze inside of his lungs making him clean and keeping him safe, he cried still and became jealous of his surroundings, the ugliness of his divine satisfaction kicking and kicking for more blood until.. until..
Heaven exploded; he came and lie in the grass, disgusted and tired and satisfied with himself, knowing that that was what it would be like with him. Though more beautiful... because then, he could feel the touch of those strong arms around him now, and they would drift off to sleep together and create a whole new universe again, to destroy in their love the next night. And the evening after that, and the evening after that..
He ached and bled –-yes he had bled--, lifting his fingers to his face and seeing the scarlet residue of his indulgence, candle wax thick, sliding down his fingers like the red-white spider web in the back of his eyes.
His whole world was now so wonderfully surreal with the afterimage of ecstasy. The afterimage in the shape of his face, of that perfection and affection so easily thrown for a lifetime of despair and ultimately, the reason why he continued on with the masquerade; to see it over and over again in the land of pretend where only Seishirou and himself lived.
He laughed softly into the ashes.
“Seishirou-san… how childish we are.”
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