tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us; any - Printable Version +- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum) +-- Forum: Explore (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: The Common Lands (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=72) +---- Forum: Meadow (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=3) +---- Thread: tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us; any (/showthread.php?tid=17945) Pages:
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RE: tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us; any - garbage - 01-28-2018
RE: tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us; any - Saedìs - 01-30-2018
The river is not the sea – but if she closes her eyes, and listen to where the rain has turned slothful, idle waters that move little but for the brush of wind against its surface into a rippling murmur she can almost remember. But the river is not the sea, and there is no sand here, only wet-earth, muddy and brown and owing nothing to the softness of dune at the ocean´s edge. So she turns her head instead to the north; to the distant rise of mountains and the muddled tufts of tree and leaf at their feet. She admires the flowers and the willow and she wonders if it is there that Garbage´s heart lie, deep with the roots of growing things, knowing the eternal solemnity of sap and bark and bough. ”I have a dream that escape me every night; water I try to catch on the sand” she muses in response to him and her words are soft, with the sound of wave-breaking in their tone. ”Maybe sometimes the why´s and what´s are best left forgotten” Her cheek turns rosy with the dawn of Armageddon at their closeness. Has he sensed how part of her longs for his touch; for his boy´s heart; for the gentleness she brought to the surface like dew? She wonders if his would be a serpent´s embrace and an Antarctic kiss. But she is starch white and pristine like a porcelain-doll in this new world - and she should not harbor such thoughts, for if she does – she will slough this skin in favor of something else. She realizes this and shame softens the lines of her face and returns them to Saedís and away from the ghost of her past, and in regaining herself she is childlike and small once again. ”I suppose anything that makes us happy is a gift to cling to and cultivate” She smiles, and in the knowing, she finds some sort of strange respite from the heart-knowledge that there is something more, something further and wider and wiser than herself, something deeper than the deepest elm-roots, deeper still than ocean depths. ”I think I could be happy here” she says. With you. She doesn´t. For to do so would be both lie and insanity. |
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; She looks out at something, a brief nostalgia crossing her features. He almost asks, but then she turns back to him, responds to his nonsensical explanations. “I just worry,” he says, “that if I forget too much, I’ll lose myself. Or part of myself. But maybe it’s a part that should stay lost.” He wakes sometimes from nightmares. A woman’s shriek, blood on the sand, a sudden blackness. Touches of bodies, bodies gone, a boy, shivering in the cold. Another boy, on his knees in prayer, sunlight on his back. A woman smiling as a piece of her skin falls from her cheek. Things best forgotten. Maybe he could forget. Could drown those hints of memory, that persistent feeling of sadness. He could drown it and then maybe it wouldn’t be wrong, to be here in the meadow with her. If he was someone else, maybe things wouldn’t repeat. How much of yourself can you forget before you’re not yourself? (What if you never much liked yourself, anyway?) It’s a fantasy, perhaps. A trick of the mind. Because god, she’s close, so pristine in the meadow, and the smile on her face eclipses all the wildflowers. “Showing you this makes me happy,” he says, soft, “you, being here, makes me happy.” It’s always so quick, with him. He shouldn’t. But he touches her. His muzzle to her shoulder, tracing the line of bone there, from shoulder to wither. He pulls his muzzle back. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry.” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He knows a sense of loss, knows it like a deep well in his ribcage. Loss is a memory, imbued in his cells, in his blood, even if his mind cannot yet put names to the feeling, to the absences. But loss is familiar, an old friend, an integral part of him. But he doesn’t feel loss – or lost – right now. Right now, he feels found, he feels discovered, like she is unearthing parts of him that should be dead. It is a dangerous feeling, a drug-high, because it’s those feelings that lead – (I could keep you warm) Well. They are dangerous. She doesn’t flinch from his touch, and when he apologizes she refuses it. He sees now that he has fooled her, that she thinks him something worthwhile, and this is why she asks him not to apologize. She doesn’t know how his touch can poison. Or, how it once poisoned. “You deserve better,” he tells her, “not someone who barely knows who he is.” You could change, his worst self whispers, you could change for her and maybe it would be different this time maybe maybe maybe - The self loathing comes strong, a hideous tide, and he shrinks from her. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again. He’s so, so sorry. He moves away. He leaves behind the flowers. He leaves behind the woman he’s falling for, because he’s fallen so many goddamn times, and he isn’t yet ready to hit the ground. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |