ANDRAS DEMYAN
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
who would believe the fantastic
and terrible story of our survival?
Every day, the birds in the trees, singing endlessly. Every day, fox-like creatures in the library that suggest Andras do something else, go somewhere else, so they do not have to watch him glower at powdery scrolls and books so brittle he worries they will turn to ash in his hands. He still has not found what he's searching for. He's still not entirely sure that he knows what it is. But it has to be here.
Andras has not entertained, and cannot bring himself to face, that his suffering may be senseless, that he may be so angry and so full simply because he was born wrong. Born with a thing in him that crackles and pops in the pit of his stomach. Something that surges. Something that roars.
No, it cannot be that.
So, Andras stalks the library's singing chambers in the company of birds (his brothers) and helpers and buzzing insects, pulling books from the shelves in piles of three, thumbing through the pages as if there is nothing else to him, no air to breathe except in the space between letters, until he can't see, or hear, or feel anything except hot frustration bubbling up in him. He knows this frustration well. It is his constant companion. And it sits in him, warm and black, with teeth like a wolf's teeth.
Today it's cold, and wet, and when Andras finally listens, when he is too tired to argue with the helpers and his insides sound like war drums, deep and loud, thumping to the toon of some ancient dirge. Outside the leaves clatter happily, letting only stray drops plummet through the canopy. He would think it was peaceful if he was not a cauldron, or a stove stoked to bursting.
With a heavy sigh, Andras pulls his glasses off his face, rubs the glass on one inky wing, and is surprised to see the king down the hall, when he puts them back on.
"Hello," Andras says through clenched teeth, as he says most things. "you're the sovereign, correct? I'm Andras, and I was just leaving."
He wasn't, and he makes no move to, but it is often easier to avoid the obvious - and the stack of books beside him is obvious.
Andras has not entertained, and cannot bring himself to face, that his suffering may be senseless, that he may be so angry and so full simply because he was born wrong. Born with a thing in him that crackles and pops in the pit of his stomach. Something that surges. Something that roars.
No, it cannot be that.
So, Andras stalks the library's singing chambers in the company of birds (his brothers) and helpers and buzzing insects, pulling books from the shelves in piles of three, thumbing through the pages as if there is nothing else to him, no air to breathe except in the space between letters, until he can't see, or hear, or feel anything except hot frustration bubbling up in him. He knows this frustration well. It is his constant companion. And it sits in him, warm and black, with teeth like a wolf's teeth.
Today it's cold, and wet, and when Andras finally listens, when he is too tired to argue with the helpers and his insides sound like war drums, deep and loud, thumping to the toon of some ancient dirge. Outside the leaves clatter happily, letting only stray drops plummet through the canopy. He would think it was peaceful if he was not a cauldron, or a stove stoked to bursting.
With a heavy sigh, Andras pulls his glasses off his face, rubs the glass on one inky wing, and is surprised to see the king down the hall, when he puts them back on.
"Hello," Andras says through clenched teeth, as he says most things. "you're the sovereign, correct? I'm Andras, and I was just leaving."
He wasn't, and he makes no move to, but it is often easier to avoid the obvious - and the stack of books beside him is obvious.
@ipomoea
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
