There’s a certain beauty to life alone. A certain finesse to the fine art of dying in no ones arms but your own. I’ve lost count of the seconds slowly rolling into days. Those things were never ours anyway. It’s funny … The noises your mind will come up with to keep time floating in oceans with little salt. At first you know it’s just the children in your head playing. Then you begin to doubt as shadows creep out. Humans can die from any number of ailments … A common cold to a lightening strike, Historic rejection or morbid curiosity, It’s what makes us the same. At least that’s what they say. Maybe I relied too much on silence in those days.
My shadows frolic through the roaring break. They toss their hands to the wind And dance the steps to heaven. I don’t imagine they’ll let me live.
Word Count: 147
A write for What Pegman Saw. This weeks location is St. Helena island. For more information and rules visit the link. To read more stories click the blue froggy below.
Art of Dying is also a song by George Harrison, not really much in common with this piece but still nice to listen to.
My head is a balloon floating from a child’s hand. The bed, beeping machines, city streets with colonies of feet fall out of focus below me. I’ve never been much a believer in heaven or hell but beyond the clouds there exists a veil. It waves me forward, a welcoming call.
Oh but I can feel the child like tug after all. My balloon head fills with lead, plummeting, it lands squarely against the bed.
Perhaps it’s a bit too loaded, this moment they allude to in death. The pressure to ascend just right, or be doomed to plummet into the hand of a mad man, is enough to drive one from sanity.
The nurse slips a round or two into my IV. I never truly see her. My mind shuffles like channels over the TV, all white noise and infomercial pleas.
For the briefest of seconds a signal flickers. Sensations flood my mind, driving me quickly into overtime. Between the thrashes and splashes the nurse stands stoic, medicine at the ready.
I don’t say much, my tongue operates like the finest mush, but the nurse with her ruby smile assures me. She pats my hair and caresses my arm.
You can thank Ramin Djawadi and the Westworld Season 2 soundtrack for this (he also composes the music for Game of Thrones if you’re interested).
I haven’t done any stream of consciousness attempts in a while …
Sometimes my tongue gets heavy before spilling over, filling my mouth with boiling sand. I try to ask you, push forth these things which have my heart bursting its seams but all I have are irritations, enveloping themselves in the bed of my skin. Though I claw and scream, leak precious blue blood over everything … Though I tear holes and try to dig away the itch there is no relief from the boiling grains buried within the thick.
There’s something to be said …
I think I thought you heard me …
Do we never learn?
Are you still afraid of heights?
Or has it spun, is it your turn?
You never saw it coming right?
Cuz we’re falling …
And I thought I heard you singing
Weaving tapestry tapes and sound.
How did it go again?
(2013) – Do you still have our song?
Free flow Saturday – With schoolwork and my vacation I’ve gotten out of the habit of writing over the past few weeks. I’m trying to get back into it. This seems like the best place to start.
Prompt: Hypnotize (this random word generator doesn’t always come up with good stuff but it pulled through today)
Music: Low & Dirty Three – In The Fishtank 7
I’ve never understood
People at rock shows in towering heels
But I’m mesmerized
By their sultry disregard, reckless abandon.
I think it’s odd
When families talk over dinner
Yet I’m entranced
By their shifting notes in laughter and love.
Once the idea
That I should be my own person,
Capable of a life beyond one envisioned
Of me, for me, in spite of me,
Sent chills through my skin.
Somehow here I exist,
And I wonder if this
Is what normal feels like?