A thin hot burning cascades through a silvery lined, finely shaved silken thread. Cuts through it as if it were as thin as the golden fibres of an eight legged fiend's web, a web that holds so many temptations to every other one. Draws you in with the sickly sweet smell of life, leaning into the obtuse angles of hope and happiness, your face is covered in silvery dust particles, you fell for the trap.
Falling down and lower, you feel your stomach turn and sink, those icy cold fingers tickle up your spine and pull and scratch at the quivering corners of your frame, these golden strings ladled with thick hot breaths of fear that smother your tiny soul, a nightmare that refuses to end, falling deeper and its getting darker and warmer, but the ice is still frozen to your back, what can we do now?
A thud, a bang is all that is to be heard outside of this gratuitous symbol, made up of purity and angelic strings, angels hair plucked itself, rest around in circles like a tiny maze that unfolds and unfolds and becomes more complex the further we venture into it. Is this what you really wanted?
Fingernails plastered walls upon walls, symbolising the many souls that once were, once were like you. With your smug grin and you pride that you vomit you think you are the supreme. A mirror that refuses to tell you the truth, smirks and laughs at you, points its ugly grey long finger at you and cackles the most eerie horror-veiled laugh, the swelling in your chest begins to make it hard to suck in the beloved air around you, the only thing you have left. Your own hands and feet don't want you. Your eyes mock, and debate with anything that comes within a metre of them.
Standing up is hard enough in this blackened industrial state, open your eyes once more they say, we only want your face, the flash goes off and you've become exposed. Your clothing peels away along with your skin like autumn's last leaves on its last tiny spiny white branch. The blood red leaf falls to the ground softly, but causes a massive explosion. Something so soft can destroy everything else in its path.
A burden that is cast upon your skin, the bones are heavy and the skin is even heavier. The thick layer of love that circles you is almost gone. Where is everyone?
You pull one limb at a time forward, forcing your mangled expressions forward into that unbreaking blinding smile, which shows those white lights. These lights are horrible lights. These lights hurt a lot. Force their waves through your veins that pulsate and continue to throb up your spiny jawline. The muscles are ripping , staying permanently, making you permanent, to this world. What if you don't feel like it? Your not on time today.
Your never on time. Wasteful yet wanting at the same time, you cringe when someone says something you don't like yet you want to only hear their seethe more. An unforbidden pain that like to dance along your heart, with pins for feet and knives for hands, this tiny beating drum is torn so many times, once more might do it, so dance along to your favourite song , a classical soprano that rattles your chest, with vibrations of guilt and a drum full of coins.
Toss it out. Throw the drum out of the window, its dirty and old and its taking up too much space because its so big. Leave all of these small ones in here, they are efficient and all take up a tiny amount of space, everyone likes things that take up small space, its only good isn't it? It's only got a small surface and a small volume, who really needs something that when beaten, makes such a loud merciful noise?
Sinking in the water, looking up through the glassy membrane. Your body is bound but your happy to fall. Now you can watch everyone from underneath. With their fake smiles and big white lights for teeth. No one will disturb or rattle the chains again, sit beating drum the web is quite finished, your down here now with the rest of your size.
You look around, every other drum that is too big or too loved has been chained to the bottom of this icy lake, small tiny eyes flitter open and closed every few minutes. The smaller drums get to sit together in their cosy room, at least you get to talk down here, the other's never say a word with their mouths, but do with their heads and eyes.
The wind blows through the web and this little structure has been destroyed, just rebuild and start again you say to the eight legged spider. “It's not that hard”.
Some more stream of consciousness writing I wrote.
Rachel Young.
1 comments:
WOW!!!! Barbie you are one very talented writer young lady! Don't you ever stop!
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