| Slipstream, Act III: Eyes A-cast to the Dusky Skies of Yesterever |
[Jul. 14th, 2009|08:57 pm] |
He awoke in his tent, covered in sweat and grit, pulling sticks and worms out of his hair and wondering if he should be happy or not at the moment. He sat up, scraping the grime from beneath his nails, letting the mists of slumber rise out from his head and back to a land unknown to men who see what they are supposed to. Looking blankly at the veined walls, listening to a tribal orchestra beating and blowing away at different parts of animal remains, like so many savages, all whooping and hopping about smoldering ashes of a disregarded fire, thinking all the while, thinking things like "why am I here" and "how did I get myself here". His head was hanging and he had to hold it in his hands because so many people, people that he missed, all hung around his head, conversing with him, except they weren't really saying anything new, just repeating things they had already said, to the point where it was all he could hear, and tears of longing happened upon his ducts.
"What is this?" he thought. "I thought these people were with me."
I guess they weren't.
Right?
He looked at the figure lying next to him, still wrapped up amongst the comforts of slumber, her figure exuding a radiance he had become familiar with, one he knew as his own, finding the rays of excellence avoiding him, taking detours around his body, spiraling about his trunk, pricking the back of his neck before they would pierce through the top of the vaguely transparent ceilings, reaching for heights he cared not for. For now, he was stuck on this earth, amongst the grit and the filth, wallowing in tide-pools full of strange occurrences occurring as he saw, occurring long ago, already all occurred (as it occurred to him), ridding him tumultuous with fear and longing.
Why were tears now leaping into his eyes? Who was giving them to him? As if he didn't know. Still, he pondered.
This is just stupid, the thought had said to him. What is this even all about? As if he didn't already know. And still, he wondered.
Was I? Am I? Could it all be? Wrong? Really? No. Really? Oh God. No. Really? It can't. It's me, right? It's for me. Or so he thought.
And now, all of his friends and comrades stood before him upon a great plain of green, a seaward wind whipping through their hair, the same wind he thought himself the only one canny to, except now he clearly saw it affecting them all. He saw them all close their eyes and smile as they enjoyed the warming breeze that heated their Heart and cooled their Soles. Then he saw himself, watching them do as he did, as he often had done, watching them put not with them, the zephyrs pulling him in a direction he saw as his own, now sharing it with all he had seen, as he wished to have done, as he had often tried to have done, as was already done, unknown to he but not I, for now I see the painting as I commit it all to a canvas. And what a funny little doodle has become of it? Was it all not just a scribble, some chicken scratch upon a dried hide of membrane, my brain, until I realized what paints and colors I had with me, all the time, lying about in rust and ruins for folly of the amateurs immaturity, not knowing what he was doing with what he had?
I still see you guys like that. I haven't stopped since. He hasn't either. It's stuck like that. And God, how ablest is it that it should remain this way! Had I not seen it, I would not be coming back. I'm coming back for you. You.
And so, as he hangs his head, droll tears still dripping out his eyes, still standing upon that grassy plain with the sea wind and the smiling faces, one of you, probably you, steps forward, bearing unspeakable lights upon your wake, and you take him by the shoulder, lift his chin, and you show him what courage he has, that I have, that you have, the tears now becoming vapour, and both of your faces bespeckled with awe as you, together, behold the celestial spectrum, wondering with excited amusement which stars you will soon call your own.
I love you. Thank you for everything. |
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