Lilah's eyelids fluttered open delicately, like butterfly wings unfurling in tentative flight. She awoke to the darkness and the ghostly touch of cobwebs and dust that hung heavy in the air. Lilah knew at once that this was no longer her hospital room. No longer could she feel the cumbersome tubes that were lodged in her body. Her breath was not a labored one, and neither could she feel the vague discomfort of her bruised and battered flesh. Somehow, though she could not have said why if you had asked her, she knew also that she was not dead.
She lay perfectly still for a long time as she began to get accustomed to her fully mended body, the contours of the strange room and the impenetrably thick folds of darkness. It was a while before Lilah stirred from the lavishly decorated canopy bed. There would be no waking to his expectant face, that much she knew. Not any time soon.
With a soft sigh, she moved through room slowly as though she were sailing through a veil of dreams that led her past the imposing doorway and into a vast emptiness that might have been the chambers of her hollowed out heart.
The sound of absolutely nothing at all echoed dully about the cavernous halls. In fact, Lilah was half convinced that the sound of her footsteps were all in her head.
The torches that lined the walls shifted shadows like perpetually moving curtains, forming and reforming fleeting phantasms to haunt the manor. She continued to circle the labyrinthine passageways until the relevance of time seemed to fall behind, forever lost to the mercurial shadows.
- Music:Hysteric - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
It's been haunting me for days now. Don't even bother asking me to explain it.
You see, lately I keep having this strange feeling of wanting to be in cold places. But not just any random cold place. It's more like I'm constantly recalling feeling these inexplicable waves of comfort and nostalgia when I start thinking about shacking up somewhere nice and cozy and cold. Like a nice hotel room or cabin with freshly laundered sheets made of soft clouds. The sort which comes with moderate sunshine and white gossamer curtains and that implacable tinge of dew or mornings or newness in the air. Or it could be a simple little room, nice and airy, while the rain falls outside gently as it sends a refreshing breeze into the room.
And that leads me to think of cool crisp classrooms, the quiet airconditioner hum in the background. It's the class right after lunchbreak and there's a lull in the room as everyone just listens to nothing. There is no impatience, no willing the clock to move faster or the bell to ring, just the relaxed slump against the wooden armchair and the comfortable chill of the room. I think of walking around school corridors as the storm swirls heavily, as tendrils of rain brush past in greeting. I think of walking through trees in the campus bundled up in a jacket, it is damp in the fringes and it feels wonderful. I think of sitting in the freezing study hall, with the sound of cheerful chatter and pockets of laughter to keep toasty. I think of the unwieldy breeze at it kisses my skin violently, in its wake it tosses my hair into the air with abandon. I think of the icy and salt-flavored breeze from the sea as I lie with my back against the soft sand and I could just melt in content.
Incidentally, I never get this feeling in the chilly confines of work, unless you can count the bit where I'm walking away from it.
I could honestly go on all day, and in the back of my whimsical head, I just might. I can't quite explain it really. It could be that I'm still stuck in vacation mode. But life, I think, should feel something like this.
Bruises blossomed like spring flowers upon Lilah's skin. Blood oozed in mournful rivulets, leaving a trail of gore and sorrow on her hapless body. She had been asleep for days. Many said it was a miracle that the trauma had not bested her and that it was a wonder how she could still breath though her lungs had been crushed and filed with blood. It was amazing still, how she would sometimes wake, her eyes a-flutter, seemingly lost but never without their steely shadow glinting from them.
Days passed slowly for her, for she was unable to speak, only watch as orderlies wove in and out of her room. There were a few who had the kindness or the time to while away the days with her, but then they would always leave with the day's end. And so she waited as days became weeks. Sometimes she would sleep fitfully and the tears she had suppressed in the day would fall one by one, and she would wake in surprise to find her pillow soaked and her face salty.
They were always very gentle with her, as though she might break if they spoke too loud. Everyone knew of the horrific struggle that brought her here, not to mention the gruesome state she had arrived in. There were many who remembered how she had arrived caked in crimson, her body broken in several places including her neck which had bent in a discomfiting angle, not to mention a good number of her fingers. Her face was beyond recognition from all the swelling and it had taken some time before she could be identified.
It had been longer than a month before someone arrived to visit Lilah's wasted body. The worst of her injuries were just beginning to fade. At least the most visible ones.
Slowly, the man entered the room with careful and hesitant steps. At that moment his gaze had locked upon hers, his eyes were filled with unbearable sorrow, his deep set eyes shadowed by nightmares and many a sleepless night. He began to walk to her as though he was trudging out of an oppressive fog.
Lilah's eyes mirrored his sorrow and with a labored breath her mouth opened as though to speak. Still no words came from her parched and quivering mouth. Only bitter tears that seared her scarred flesh.
And then it came, the terrible and sweet wave of oblivion, washing over her until she was drowning in it. Her last vision was that of him, a look of utter fear as she began to slip away from him.
By midnight, Delilah Rosenberg had slipped into a coma.
Today I dreamt I was about to get ready for a class. Except it wasn't yoga class that I was getting ready for, but a tennis game. Hah, a likely story I know. I was taking my time thinking that I had a lot to spare, only it was time to go. Of course I simply couldn't leave yet without braiding my bangs, which was taking me some time as I sprinted around the house getting my shit together. The closet was another debacle, because I had to wear a specific gray shirt that I couldn't find. So I unearth my closet and settle for some other gray shirt, and because the dreaming is spiffy that way, my closet stays organized despite rummaging through it helter skelter. It's only when I'm about to leave that I find said shirt, which hooray, I change into. It's only when I've put it on that I realize I forgot to put my bra on. And then I wake up.
So there we go. This proves that I dream mundane dreams after all. But considering its tennis, its still pretty out there when you think about it.
Ah, sweet Florentine. Lovely, delicious and fragrant Florentine. How supple her skin, how graceful the curve of her neck. Her voice was as smooth and full as honey.
She walked with the stride and swagger of a seasoned alley cat, each step a testament to her measured grace. It seemed incongruous with her delicate frame. Past strangers she rushed at a hurried pace, moving like a vision. A sense of longing blossomed within my wasted heart and I longed to possess her at that very moment. I longed for her fair skin to be torn up in ribbons of crimson and flesh hues. Longed to break her bones and hold her soft, plump heart in my hands.
Oh I know I must sound horrible. You must think me a monster. Sadly, I cannot say with certainty that I'm not. Strange, isn't it? For one to love beauty so much and to seek out its destruction at the same time must sound excruciatingly preposterous. Not so, not so.
I only ask that you consider it from my perspective before rushing to judgment. You see, my handiwork was a labor of love. I, the Savior, offering my perfect little pets their salvation. Would you have me stand by idly only to watch their finely sculpted skin is heedlessly ravaged by old age? How could my conscience rest easy knowing that time shall sink its abhorrent claws upon them, reducing their gracious stances into stooped and shriveled hunches? The light and mirth in their piercing eyes fading into a listless glaze. I could not bear the the thought of it! Better that their lifebeat to fade gently into my loving hands, all the glory of their youth and beauty intact and properly worshipped by my humble soul.
Still and cold at my feet, they would be cherished forever as I'd partake of their succulent hearts.
Thus I longed to possess this latest flight of fancy, the passing dream that was my Florentine. And though I heard tell she went by the name of Lilah, she would always be my Florentine. They all were, in the end.
It was in the shadow of the rising sun that I finally caught up with her and she seemed so sure of herself against the backdrop of towering high-rises. As though to pay homage to my act of kindness, the sunlight began to pour in trickles from the glass windows.
How she fought me! My Florentine, all feist and fire.She was beautiful even as she raged and kicked and cursed. And while I loved her even more, she broke my heart for she did not wish to be part of me.
I wept with every blow I dealt and I myself was a broken man by the time her shattered shell and defiant eyes looked at me from where she lay. They took her away, my precious prize, not even granting her the mercy of sweet death.
I still search for you in dreams, my fallen one. Ever my Florentine.
- Music:Hysteric - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
I miss waiting for the rain.
Wake up. The sound of chimes tinkling softly and eerily in the breeze as it whispers gently of the coming storm. The chill creeps right into your sheets. You shift and struggle to sleep in the comfortable cold but there is the irresistable pull of the prospect of no classes. The towel, the freshly pressed uniform and that insufferable pile of underthings in the prescribed shades of white or beige are pointedly ignored. You walk to the nearest window covered in gooseflesh and hope that today you can sleep in. You wait with bated breath, barefoot on the marble floor with your nose pressed against the window for the crystal shower to fall - tentatively at first, calling forth that tantalizing earthy smell. And then, with a wail and a shriek, the torrential rain begins to plummet and pummel.
That said, it was still pretty comforting. The AM radio blares in the background, telling of the latest intrigues, domestic squabbles gone awry, inane announcer banter. Why do people on AM always sound like they're yelling? Or is that something they do in the morning to keep us awake? I'd scowl groggily at the radio to mentally will that sought-after announcement.
Walang Pasok. Insert level here.
Sweet freedom is celebrated by a heartily savored breakfast. Maybe some hot chocolate. And most importantly, that mandatory return to bed to wallow in the sheets and pillows and blissful sleep.
I particularly miss lounging around the house, tv on, the dog snuggled against me - both a show of affection and lightning fear. From there I'd watch the rain drops as they slid off the eaves. Watch them form pools of mud, watch them drip from the gates. Sometimes I'd go outside just to catch a few in my hand.
I don't experience the rain as much as I used to these days. Our encounters are more often a battle, or a clumsy dance. At least since work started, anyway.
I miss waiting for the rain.
Hello my little one,
with your big smile
covered in confection
I would not trade
for all the cakes and pies
And chocolates and candies
Ball of fur and warmth,
Nestled in your fitful giggles
and your sticky sweet paws
are our sunshine dreams
and our silly secrets
You are a universe unto yourself
Keep us in your tight embrace
And guard our hopeful dreams
My trips to the dreaming have been interesting of late. Of course if you knew me well enough, you know I always say that. And mean it, for that matter. For instance, I've never experienced tasting things in my dream, I hardly even recall eating stuff there. Usually I'm about to, and then I wake up. But recently, I remember tidying up after a party, only to find a weird sort of carrot cake, which was the roll kind, but gelatinous. I distinctly remember that its texture was puddingy and it tasted like a creamy carrot jelly, with a sharp and fresh tinge of real carrot slices in the middle. It was so vivid too. Now if only I could sneak in some recipes from the dreaming. Oh, by the way, did you know that you drink eggnog from test tubes there?
So last night, there I was in my classroom/ dormitory, levitating/sitting on the railings and writing a poem. Which was really so I could ignore that annoying classmate who kept bugging me. I only remember a shadow of it, and who it was for.
The golden light touches your face lightly
So too does my hand
And I watch on as it melds into you in the liquid light
Soon I am upon you, and I too melt into your skin
Of course this is both at the same time, a rough and embellished upon version of it. But I'm pretty sure that's sort of how it went. Good to know I can sort of write stuff in my dreams.
Sometimes when I have particularly odd dreams, I write them down in random bits of paper. It's always interesting to come across the when I happen to find them. Which reminds me. I really should get a dream journal.
Why hello, there.
It's the New Year. And is it just me, or did 2010 just sneak up on us like a ninja to give us a spanking new wedgie? That sneaky fiend. Which just goes to show you really, that the New Year is not a holiday meant to be celebrated quietly. Or slept through, for that matter (like some people I know o__o). Let's say that noob year happens to be stealthy and creeps up on you, are you just gonna lie there and snore at it and let it pwn your ass? Wouldn't you very much rather welcome said year with much pomp and ceremony and noise and fire to show the New Year that you're ready to tussle and get the best out of him. Or is it a her? It. Anyway. I'm sure the Year will feel very welcome and you and the fellow will get along just fine before another stealthy new New Year comes along. It's sort of like that poem, really. Don't go quietly into the night. It makes perfect sense, I say.
There's lots of things to do this year. Although I must say, I'm growing tired of the word "year." And 2010 isn't anybetter. Maybe years should have names. Like Bob or Ana. But I digress. Let it be known that bit by bit, stories will come to life, or in some cases, be raised from the dead. In my head there's one brewing right now about a heart that literally lives through the ages by virtue of being repeatedly transplanted. Hmm, although I know I have one such entry about hearts being eaten somewhere here. Hehe, maybe I should finish those by Valentines for kicks.
I also intend to learn and relearn the Tarot, by the Godess. What? I imagine it's what someone who does Tarot would say. And as Sir Randy would phrase it, I am to feed my inner artist. And I intend to do so til it's a hefty ol' glutton. Speaking of which, they really should have some sort of bootcamp for that sort of thing.
At any rate, the list goes on. You get the point. Note my awesomeness for not having used that repulsive New Year's R word. Tsk tsk tsk. It makes everything sound dull. And I've already decided that this Year shall be fun and even spiffier than ever.
So there. Buh-ring it, 2010. It's so on.
Can I just say that walking down for your bathroom break does wonders, inspiration-wise? I now have a spifft thought-bubble for my nano. Thank you, bathroom break gods. For now, my working title is: "The Affair of the Infrequent Deaths." I'm probably changing that though. Hurrah.