1 (3)
To dream is to see darkness in yourself and all the stars and nebulae and galaxies that reside, to cradle the monster that resides in you and turn it into something softer and less jagged, to see your fears and overcome them, to pull your chest apart and see yourself in a fragmented, shattered beauty. To dream is to live.
To dream is to see the light inside you burning everything to ash and blinding everyone, to bleed and be rewarded and loved for it, to see the perfect untouchable and perfect you, to pick yourself apart, and to leave the bleeding monster in your light where it’s consumed and hidden. To dream is to die.
To wake is to face the dawn that burns, to pull yourself from your dreams and cast them into the forgetting, to see the beautiful and blooming destruction that your kin have birthed, to pull yourself from the heat and ash of your burning yesterday into the frigid and broken today. To wake is to burn.
To wake to see the new flower that blooms, to greet the new and old friend, to hope, to gather for the new dream. To wake is to see the world in all it’s glory
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TW: Blood
I pushed through the thorns and thickets, their uncaring and razor thorns jutting out, yet none of them touched me. I continued onward, and as I got closer flashes built up between my eyes, just as they always and never did.
(Not-I laughed, how could Not-I not? How could Not-I not laugh when everything was right in front of Not-me?)
Not-blinking, I saw that I was farther along than before, and that was good, this is what I need to do, this is what it wanted me to do. I looked up seeing that the gaping and hungry maw was closer.
(Not-I flew up, my not-broken skin reflecting the beating heart that was taller and wider than not-I.)
This flash brought me to the very edge. I peered into the maw and was captivated.
How could I not? It withered and swallowed, and faintly, far too faintly I saw a pulse. A pulse that birthed and twisted things, that slithered up and up until they almost reached me.
And I ran. Flashes pulsed under my eyes, under my veins.
(Not-I was holy in the damned sense, holy in the fact that mot-I had fallen and had turned not-my halo into a heartbeat and fangs.)
Run. Run. Run. Don’t ever stop. Run until your legs bleed, until your lungs collapse. That fate is kinder than if you don’t.
(Not-I looked up, up at the pulsing eye that peered down into not-my heart, into my soul.)
Run. Run into the brick and stone building that has stood there since either tomorrow or eternity, there is no difference.
The thickets and thorns pull at me, the twisted new-born things have sunk their fangs into me, hungry beyond all hunger, and I felt nothing.
(Not-I, ran begging to nothing, snatched holiness having been pulled, consumed, from not-my hands, from not-my body.)
I ran, heaving myself up to the entrance of the building. My lungs didn’t burn, my skin felt no warmth, and the blood that dripped down from the painless cuts felt like as normal as my own soundless heartbeat.
As I was ushered inside by no-one with a kind face that spoke of hollow, I wondered what else the maw has taken from me.
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Tap, tap, tap, goes the keys like a shuddering heartbeat.
Tap, tap, tap, goes the backspace, concepts dying like unknown children.
Blink, blink, blink, goes the cursor, hovering like an angel and blinking in and out like sparks.
Think, think, think, goes the writer, or at least they try.
Drip, drip, drip, goes the heart, spilling out crimson and leaving words behind.
Tap, tap, tap, goes the writer, going forward and back again.