"My heart is not in my throat.
It is pounding too hard,
secure in my chest,
no, the weight at the back of my throat
is not my heart."
It is pounding too hard,
secure in my chest,
no, the weight at the back of my throat
is not my heart."
There is a buzzing in his head, an endless motion like a milling crowd. He stands at its center and each tongue around him is speaking abuse in another language, another leaf turned over to reveal a raw and bleeding underside. He is, in his quintessence, the raw and bleeding underside. There inside him the bells are still ringing and time after time they toll to the ryhthm of some funeral dirge he doesn't remember, some boxing match that left everyone bloody and no one victorious.
Such is existence at the bottom of the pit.
Such is screaming at the void.
Paint out all the scenery and make it white, so white it burns your eyes -- so white that the bleached bones laid out somewhere in the sun (a trophy, maybe? or another senseless tragedy,) grow bitter with envy and crumble to dust. Think that somewhere in the back of your crackling mind there is the inclination, to flee or to fight, and you have forgotten altogether how to do one of them. Bring this thought to the forefront for later -- it is going to be important -- and think instead: wow, it is cold.
Somewhere in the background, a drop of water that hisses and dissipates as it lands in the pot of his anger. Somewhere in the background, the steam of breath and the soft crunch of snow underfoot. Andras wheels around to see her, Sabine, and does not see much but the deliberate stride and the tense line of her neck and knows like he knows few other things that she is, in a word, tormented. He silently prays that once, just once, he could perhaps be remade into something that makes sense, something that is not saddled with rage and made to carry it night and day. He thinks that no matter what strain is put upon this mare (the thought: magic never crosses his mind, never even begins to, but the thought: panic is close enough, considering--) he would trade it for his body that he feels sometimes must be mostly bile and teeth set on edge.
So, fine.
Fine. Andras will go to the girl. Andras will open his wings, push himself into the air, and glide the short distance that has opened up between them.
Andras will say, not unkindly but through clenched teeth, "You gonna be okay, bud?" As he lands, the little black horse tucks his wings against his side. Somewhere else, several more drops of water into the frying pan. He will smooth his own hackles if he has to.
Such is existence at the bottom of the pit.
Such is screaming at the void.
Paint out all the scenery and make it white, so white it burns your eyes -- so white that the bleached bones laid out somewhere in the sun (a trophy, maybe? or another senseless tragedy,) grow bitter with envy and crumble to dust. Think that somewhere in the back of your crackling mind there is the inclination, to flee or to fight, and you have forgotten altogether how to do one of them. Bring this thought to the forefront for later -- it is going to be important -- and think instead: wow, it is cold.
Somewhere in the background, a drop of water that hisses and dissipates as it lands in the pot of his anger. Somewhere in the background, the steam of breath and the soft crunch of snow underfoot. Andras wheels around to see her, Sabine, and does not see much but the deliberate stride and the tense line of her neck and knows like he knows few other things that she is, in a word, tormented. He silently prays that once, just once, he could perhaps be remade into something that makes sense, something that is not saddled with rage and made to carry it night and day. He thinks that no matter what strain is put upon this mare (the thought: magic never crosses his mind, never even begins to, but the thought: panic is close enough, considering--) he would trade it for his body that he feels sometimes must be mostly bile and teeth set on edge.
So, fine.
Fine. Andras will go to the girl. Andras will open his wings, push himself into the air, and glide the short distance that has opened up between them.
Andras will say, not unkindly but through clenched teeth, "You gonna be okay, bud?" As he lands, the little black horse tucks his wings against his side. Somewhere else, several more drops of water into the frying pan. He will smooth his own hackles if he has to.
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
