Sunday, March 21, 2010

Clock trapped. Intentionally bound.

Black embraces my body everywhere. Ancient black garb swirls with my form, and sooty black eyes birth sooty black tears. My hair is black. Ashes compliment it gray.
She is gone.
My Addie-bird. My Eden. My doll. My angel. My blue doorknob. My sparrow.

I cannot sleep, for an anvil the same shape size and weight of her, lays in my lap still. Heavy, weary, nothing. It forces my back into the springs of my bed. It terrorizes me until my stomach raises like a frightened cat's back. It grows wings that beat me instead of carrying me away. It sprouts claws that rip up my throat. Like vapor come its eyes, forcing mine open with their devil stare, bleeding into them poison.

It is guilt. It is mourning. It is death.

For 5 hours in succession, my tears fell out of my head. With feigned resolve, I let my albatross lead me away.

My sustenance is air. I wish I were a sheep, with nothing to give but my wool. With nothing to say but a peaceful baaa. With nothing to think of but myself. And death is yes, incommodious, but I would forget the next day. The shepherd could yell and scream in rage, and I would be dumb and chew the inside of my jaw in complacency. To be dull would be easier. Easier than what? Than this haunting apathy that consumed my entire gut? Than the realization that my best friend, the one who understands and cherishes me, the one who is like me and life to no more.

With that thought, I collapsed in invisible tears. Tears that ran over with an endless flood in my soul, but never touched my visage. I choked and vomited up my recent food...air. I was nothing. Now, I was vanity as well. And there was no sun.

I feel as if I have been morphed into the hand of a clock. Always moving forward without any say. Each tick is a break of my bones. Likewise, the ominous clock continues to hustle me forward as if there were a rush for the death I felt. A death of half of me. I get up.

I was once told that I would do well in the world of anime. I have often dreamed to thrive in solitude amongst only precious fauna. My dream seemed to turn in an impossible position and bite me in the face. My desolation makes me popular among kin, but I find no consolation or joy in their presence. I only lay with them, impossibly wishing they could speak their innate protective senses into my dense head. I got too close, and when she died, I did too.

No, not quiet death, but I begin to fall into the trend she developed without suggestion. I make a conscious decision that if I cannot die, I will live in my mind. For it is cold and dark there, but it is not able to smother me in agony. I can recreate my my head.

I climb a massive weeping willow stocked with vultures, curl myself about a branch, and shut my veined blue eyelids.