This is what you feel:
Sep. 19th, 2008 01:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wolven7Your eyes are closed, now. All sound has ceased, but the pulse of your blood in your ears. Listen. Do you hear it? It's colder now. The blood is hot, in your face, but that only serves to contrast and clarify the drop in the temperature around you. There is a chill wind, crisp, and almost clean. What's that smell?
There is a sound, in the wind, a rustling, sticking noise, like the sound of someone stepping out of drying paint, extended into one long, continuous sound, and yet each step repeated and distinct. Hear it. You know this sound.
The cold and the dark wraps around you and there is a piercing, prickling sensation at your throat; the presence of mind to wonder, to reconnect or try to clear a fog or fumes; a feeling like a long, loving lick up the groove between your neck and your larynx, but cooler, stickier. Dead?
Not dead, but not alive, and as it moves across your cheek, there's a tightening at your waist, squeezing you, pressing you closer to yourself and slowly forcing the air from your chest. Swollen?
Is your wind-pipe blocked? Why can't you breathe? Why don't you want to scream, to run, to tear at the arms...? Things that are holding you, pinning you, crushing you? The tacky, viscous cold is in your eyes, now, spiraling its way into your inner ear, and your sense of equilibrium was forfeit, long ago, but this invasion doesn't matter, the bodily possession is meaningless, ultimately void, because of what you can feel creeping around, crawling, winding, spreading its way through your head, your mind, your litteral heart and metaphorical soul. The collection of energies, data, information, and contexts that equal up to you are being felt, caressed, coveted and known. It knows you, now.
You are reduced, refined, boiled down to inputs and essences, now; all of you is all of you, and it will experience the whole. If you are very careful, you will cease to know this ceaseless violation. This intrusion into who and what you are and might've been. If you clip the edges, sand down this surface, and go smooth, go flat and round and perfect, then there will be no where for them to hide, in you, nothing for them to hold, in you, no one for them to take from you. Form from you, forever and ever.
But this shapes you, now. This makes you and turns you, now, as on a lathe, a wheel; clay and wood, hands and blades inside of you, gouging and defining you, and if you make this surface clean, if you remove the marks you leave on you, they leave on you, they leave you. You are torn, forever, within. You are never torn, without them, never touched, never see starlight, never hear birdsong, never feel afraid, never cold or sad, or emotional, never logical, never precise and messy. They are in you, now.
Their fingers...? Claws, hands, suckers, digits, implements dig for purchase, now, in the whorls and warps of you, the weft and weave. They are in you, now.
Crawling, slithering, walking, waking, licking, tasting, touching the corners of you, the dust of you, the hidden, hurtful, secret spaces of you, and they've changed the landscape just by looking at it, thinking about it, considering it so carefully and hard. Now they're in you.
You move, look, touch, scrabble at the walls to get out, get in, get through break break break, but nothing breaks except capillaries and they let you paint a door in, and a way out, but no door is ever a one way street, is it? No window only opens In? No. No it doesn't.
When you cross that bridge, they come with you, passing in the opposite direction, and they find your disused residences attractive. They love what you never did with the place, and they want to show you the potential to open up some space, and let in a little light; because they're coiled, now, they're wound in, now, they own you, now, and you own them. The pinchers have latched in, little ant heads that hurt when they bite, to sutre a wound, but you pinch off the bodies and they're just like part of you. Soon enough, they disolve, integrated into your blood, flesh, fat and bone, like they were never even there, but they leave a scar.
They should always leave a scar.
There is a sound, in the wind, a rustling, sticking noise, like the sound of someone stepping out of drying paint, extended into one long, continuous sound, and yet each step repeated and distinct. Hear it. You know this sound.
The cold and the dark wraps around you and there is a piercing, prickling sensation at your throat; the presence of mind to wonder, to reconnect or try to clear a fog or fumes; a feeling like a long, loving lick up the groove between your neck and your larynx, but cooler, stickier. Dead?
Not dead, but not alive, and as it moves across your cheek, there's a tightening at your waist, squeezing you, pressing you closer to yourself and slowly forcing the air from your chest. Swollen?
Is your wind-pipe blocked? Why can't you breathe? Why don't you want to scream, to run, to tear at the arms...? Things that are holding you, pinning you, crushing you? The tacky, viscous cold is in your eyes, now, spiraling its way into your inner ear, and your sense of equilibrium was forfeit, long ago, but this invasion doesn't matter, the bodily possession is meaningless, ultimately void, because of what you can feel creeping around, crawling, winding, spreading its way through your head, your mind, your litteral heart and metaphorical soul. The collection of energies, data, information, and contexts that equal up to you are being felt, caressed, coveted and known. It knows you, now.
You are reduced, refined, boiled down to inputs and essences, now; all of you is all of you, and it will experience the whole. If you are very careful, you will cease to know this ceaseless violation. This intrusion into who and what you are and might've been. If you clip the edges, sand down this surface, and go smooth, go flat and round and perfect, then there will be no where for them to hide, in you, nothing for them to hold, in you, no one for them to take from you. Form from you, forever and ever.
But this shapes you, now. This makes you and turns you, now, as on a lathe, a wheel; clay and wood, hands and blades inside of you, gouging and defining you, and if you make this surface clean, if you remove the marks you leave on you, they leave on you, they leave you. You are torn, forever, within. You are never torn, without them, never touched, never see starlight, never hear birdsong, never feel afraid, never cold or sad, or emotional, never logical, never precise and messy. They are in you, now.
Their fingers...? Claws, hands, suckers, digits, implements dig for purchase, now, in the whorls and warps of you, the weft and weave. They are in you, now.
Crawling, slithering, walking, waking, licking, tasting, touching the corners of you, the dust of you, the hidden, hurtful, secret spaces of you, and they've changed the landscape just by looking at it, thinking about it, considering it so carefully and hard. Now they're in you.
You move, look, touch, scrabble at the walls to get out, get in, get through break break break, but nothing breaks except capillaries and they let you paint a door in, and a way out, but no door is ever a one way street, is it? No window only opens In? No. No it doesn't.
When you cross that bridge, they come with you, passing in the opposite direction, and they find your disused residences attractive. They love what you never did with the place, and they want to show you the potential to open up some space, and let in a little light; because they're coiled, now, they're wound in, now, they own you, now, and you own them. The pinchers have latched in, little ant heads that hurt when they bite, to sutre a wound, but you pinch off the bodies and they're just like part of you. Soon enough, they disolve, integrated into your blood, flesh, fat and bone, like they were never even there, but they leave a scar.
They should always leave a scar.
