ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Empty dusty I've forgotten the taste of rotten pills, bird droppings, white face paint of the natives, rooms stretched out in speckled macabre, swallowing tooth and claw and chain; there is something about the way she closes her eyes in this room that makes it reach uncertain levels of high, hanging by a string, clinging, something about the way she feels the insides of her eyeballs, all soft organ wire flesh that makes it feel unreal. There are exactly ten questions in her mind that aren't expressed, no words come out and she expects them to be printed on the air in front of her, spinning around like word bubbles, floating to the ceiling, obscured and very, very important and not reaching anyone or anything, just the ceiling up in the sky looking for all it did like a piece of a broken spaceship, astronomy spread out like multiplication tables by her foot. Amelia twitches it. A book in the room falls out, it looks like nothing. There is a portrait of her with no nose, no mouth, her hair is covering her ears and her eyes are very large, alien and shiny. They look like something to steal. Thieving eyes, grinning with secrets that spin themselves like a cradle. She is filled with seawater; she can taste it in her mouth, mingled with the iron taste of blood, like an added spice. She wonders if it is her blood, or someone elses.
This neighborhood is somewhere outside the windows that are narrowed, like a facial expression. It is glaring someone down below and the book that fell is filled with blank pages. There is one page that starts the galaxa travels through your belly, universes in your womb and there is something vaguely –istic about it that doesn't allow it to leave. A stranded thought leaves her wondering whether she has died, and this is her mind in the womb before the birth, while she can remember before reincarnation sets in and she grows enough to hold even snippets of dark water proof gravity, of black matter. It feels settled, like the ravens on the window sill, watching her with eyes that are strangely intelligent. There is an expression that she has seen somewhere, somewhere just before in their eyes, and when she catches a picture of her portrait without the nose and mouth, she realizes it. The statement thieving eyes echoes in her mind, and there is a curious sense of kinship that tugs silver strands of light through the windows, filtering through the dust and through the transparent bodies of ravens, like soap bubbles, like prism reflections, like a smile.
Ribbons stretch out, infestation like a parasite, underneath her skin, boiling water for sweat, it is sea water, but there is a pulling from her zenith, and she is tugged, pressure points pounding all over her body, and cuts the ribbons with a ruler, just because they need to be even. Silently, it feels like she is doing the work of the three fates. Snip, the birth begins, Snip, the length of their life till the die. Amelia is cutting fates, and she feels like a murder. There is very little remorse even now. Her own thoughts feel like those snippets, and they fall into a rhythmic process that has her thinking in numbers, only numbers, and the entire world blinks away in a growing addition, and it is all but a statistic.
(Sometimes she wishes for the world to end just so she can start living. But that is not her thought, and there is a sad smile at the ribbon that she has just cut. It is an ironically long life to not live in.)
Amelia wakes up and sees in snap shots of a lost camera. She hopes her mental folder will not run out of capacity. There is something unwinding rewinding in her mind that leaves her feel vulnerable, and fiercely angry in that sort of primitive helplessness, and she wants to destroy something beautiful. The world has already done that, and she cannot destroy all of nature that has survived, it will only come back, and she would not have won in the end.
Sleep comes from borrowed dreamers.
This neighborhood is somewhere outside the windows that are narrowed, like a facial expression. It is glaring someone down below and the book that fell is filled with blank pages. There is one page that starts the galaxa travels through your belly, universes in your womb and there is something vaguely –istic about it that doesn't allow it to leave. A stranded thought leaves her wondering whether she has died, and this is her mind in the womb before the birth, while she can remember before reincarnation sets in and she grows enough to hold even snippets of dark water proof gravity, of black matter. It feels settled, like the ravens on the window sill, watching her with eyes that are strangely intelligent. There is an expression that she has seen somewhere, somewhere just before in their eyes, and when she catches a picture of her portrait without the nose and mouth, she realizes it. The statement thieving eyes echoes in her mind, and there is a curious sense of kinship that tugs silver strands of light through the windows, filtering through the dust and through the transparent bodies of ravens, like soap bubbles, like prism reflections, like a smile.
Ribbons stretch out, infestation like a parasite, underneath her skin, boiling water for sweat, it is sea water, but there is a pulling from her zenith, and she is tugged, pressure points pounding all over her body, and cuts the ribbons with a ruler, just because they need to be even. Silently, it feels like she is doing the work of the three fates. Snip, the birth begins, Snip, the length of their life till the die. Amelia is cutting fates, and she feels like a murder. There is very little remorse even now. Her own thoughts feel like those snippets, and they fall into a rhythmic process that has her thinking in numbers, only numbers, and the entire world blinks away in a growing addition, and it is all but a statistic.
(Sometimes she wishes for the world to end just so she can start living. But that is not her thought, and there is a sad smile at the ribbon that she has just cut. It is an ironically long life to not live in.)
Amelia wakes up and sees in snap shots of a lost camera. She hopes her mental folder will not run out of capacity. There is something unwinding rewinding in her mind that leaves her feel vulnerable, and fiercely angry in that sort of primitive helplessness, and she wants to destroy something beautiful. The world has already done that, and she cannot destroy all of nature that has survived, it will only come back, and she would not have won in the end.
Sleep comes from borrowed dreamers.
yadda yadda yadda sequence of dream events - amelia's persepective, character of mine from other sites - questing no no just writing.
© 2010 - 2024 Stargem-kitty
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In