06-11-2021, 03:34 PM
kensley
i swore the days were over of courting empty dreams
Real, it had been determined.
Or had it?
It is the ache in his bones and the bitter sting in his lungs that tells him he is alive as much as anything else. Because he had felt nothing for so many years, because dead things feel no pain, at least not in the most traditional sense. (It is actually quite painful to be dead, to touch the things you love and feel nothing at all.) It had been absolute agony to be resurrected, to reclaim the body from the death that had commanded it for so long.
And it hurts still.
It hurts even now.
He is real. He is alive.
Even if he has been reduced to fog in the same way his son had clambered from the womb only shadows. (Is this the son’s doing? And is this some kind of sickness, his instinct to blame all of the dark things on the son? What does it mean that he resents the son in this way?)
He is solid when he arches his neck to touch his mouth to the chest that cages a heart that still beats incessant, relentless beneath the surface of his skin.
Against all odds, he still is.
It is not him that attracts the lightning but the storm that rages within him. It splits through the atmosphere with such a deafening crack. It is the brilliant flash of light that paralyzes him, long before the electricity reaches him, envelopes him. And it courses through him with such devastating precision, covers him, around and through him. Encapsulates him and runs down his legs, down into the earth. The air around him crackles as he sucks in a sharp breath. He exhales electricity.
No storm cloud in sight until she comes swimming out of the shadows and his chest heaves. Thunderheads converge. Two storms colliding at the edge of the river. Lightning pulses around her, from her. The storm in him calls to it, beckoning. He can feel it humming just beneath the skin. The edges are soft, like he might dissolve.
For a moment, he is powerless to do anything but look at her. Paralyzed by her question just as he had been paralyzed by her lightning. He swallows thickly and sighs and the grass between them stirs in the gust.
“I want to be real,” he answers finally, “I don’t know if I want this to be real.” This is the truth, the absolute truth. The most he can offer. There has been so much change already. He is so dreadfully tired.
“What are you?” he asks and he reaches for her when she had stopped herself from reaching for him. He reaches for her and the lightning pulses, snapping at his mouth. And then, mystified, he asks, “what am I?”
Or had it?
It is the ache in his bones and the bitter sting in his lungs that tells him he is alive as much as anything else. Because he had felt nothing for so many years, because dead things feel no pain, at least not in the most traditional sense. (It is actually quite painful to be dead, to touch the things you love and feel nothing at all.) It had been absolute agony to be resurrected, to reclaim the body from the death that had commanded it for so long.
And it hurts still.
It hurts even now.
He is real. He is alive.
Even if he has been reduced to fog in the same way his son had clambered from the womb only shadows. (Is this the son’s doing? And is this some kind of sickness, his instinct to blame all of the dark things on the son? What does it mean that he resents the son in this way?)
He is solid when he arches his neck to touch his mouth to the chest that cages a heart that still beats incessant, relentless beneath the surface of his skin.
Against all odds, he still is.
It is not him that attracts the lightning but the storm that rages within him. It splits through the atmosphere with such a deafening crack. It is the brilliant flash of light that paralyzes him, long before the electricity reaches him, envelopes him. And it courses through him with such devastating precision, covers him, around and through him. Encapsulates him and runs down his legs, down into the earth. The air around him crackles as he sucks in a sharp breath. He exhales electricity.
No storm cloud in sight until she comes swimming out of the shadows and his chest heaves. Thunderheads converge. Two storms colliding at the edge of the river. Lightning pulses around her, from her. The storm in him calls to it, beckoning. He can feel it humming just beneath the skin. The edges are soft, like he might dissolve.
For a moment, he is powerless to do anything but look at her. Paralyzed by her question just as he had been paralyzed by her lightning. He swallows thickly and sighs and the grass between them stirs in the gust.
“I want to be real,” he answers finally, “I don’t know if I want this to be real.” This is the truth, the absolute truth. The most he can offer. There has been so much change already. He is so dreadfully tired.
“What are you?” he asks and he reaches for her when she had stopped herself from reaching for him. He reaches for her and the lightning pulses, snapping at his mouth. And then, mystified, he asks, “what am I?”
i worshipped at the altar of losing everything
@[luster]