IN THE PARAMETERS OF CANVAS, THE COFFIN OF THE FRAME -
the art of wreckage, how to figure ourselves in the ruins of what we can't traverse.
Looking at the ivy feels like standing in a boat in the middle of the open sea.
It is one of those rare things that feel fathomless - up there with the sky, and the concept of eternity, and the lay of the sea in a very deep area, with no land in sight. Locust is never sure, when she thinks about those things, if she should be entranced or horrified.
Worrying about the irrelevance or depth of existence is, generally speaking, unnatural behavior for a pirate. (Of the crew, she thinks that Sheera probably had the best grasp on existence, given the nebulous quality of her own. Her current crew might have a poet or a philosopher on it somewhere, but she doubts it, and she hasn’t gotten to know any of the members well enough to be sure.) It doesn’t come naturally to her, either.
But still. When she stands at the end of the bridge and stares at that ivy, Locust feels like she is seeing something like eternity, and she thinks that it might be the closest she has ever come to wondering about the weight – and distance – of her own existence. The ivy, endless, extending in all directions – above, below, left, right. Like some great veil to shield the eyes.
And, like a veil, the next evening, the ivy is shed. She watches it happen with something that would have been fascination, had it occurred more quickly - but, rather, the process is excruciatingly slow, and the day is hot. The air still holds that stagnant and sticky quality, and it clings to the inside of her lungs like breathing in water. (It reminds her of drowning, almost.) Sweat drips trails down her skin, clotting in her salt-swept hair. She paces back and forth in front of the wall of ivy. It’s dying, even though it must have been born only days ago, if not yesterday – she thinks that there are some insects like that. The lub-dub of the ivy “hearts” echoes between her ears, and she tries to drown it out with her own thoughts, because she does not want to consider the notion of ivy having a heart. She wonders if it sounds like it is slowing. She wonders if hearts slow to a stop, or if they halt suddenly, if there is some hazy span of time where you are neither alive-nor-dead or if it is like the flip of a switch.
She looks at the ivy. The way it blooms pearls. She thinks about turning back, but she doesn’t; she tosses a glance to the pearls strewn in her hair, and perhaps she smiles.
When it is dark, and the ivy is gone entirely, perhaps there are a few more pearls strewn in her hair to catch in the foreign starlight. Regardless – the moment that the path is open, Locust runs to the island, possessed by something that is not quite delight. It is barely even anticipation.
All she knows is that the island calls – and she, little wanderer, sailor of uncharted shores, is powerless but to answer.
|| for exp, 3/4. x,x we're almost done, folks. || "sea of ice," callie siskel
"Speech!" ||
