Day 10
Today is the first day of my revolution. The world stirs around me, slowly, and I curl around the thought. Snaking my arm round my pillow, I will a gracious tear, but it doesn't fall, jut sits there, unwilling.
The crowd buzzes round and round, like I'm the decadent pot of honey instigating the temporary lives of flies. Or maybe I'm a rotting piece of flesh, discarded as easily my clothes. Perhaps the people feel restlessness creep into their houses from the crack under their doors, and the rush of wind when they hurriedly enter homes, flicking on lights to chase away darkness that sits like tar in the corners.
My pores probably seep this unrest, failing to affect my blood in the least.
Day 5
A fading lamp flickers in the corner. It holds my attention for the most part. The writhing flame expresses much of what I don't. If only someone would listen. They're trying to listen to the wrong thing. Ears should be put to use to sense the sound of fingernails scraping against winter skin, the slow hiss and crackle of matchsticks and the sound of hope falling six feet under.
I try to understand the idea behind movement, and the hustle and bustle people seem to hold in high regard, but I abandon that affair for another day. Tonight, I make peace with some things I wish not to comprehend.
My mind strains to hear other people's thoughts, rather than the superfluous words they supply. Immense effort must go into forming sentences that convey so little. So tonight, I lift my arm to silence the orator. The most I have done today. People are stunned, invariably stirring debate.
Of course, no one thinks to ask me, or I would have told them.
Day 1
Inertia, is the rebellion against movement. But inertia isn't voluntary. Every heartbeat is a push, effort taken to move blood from one place to another, or it would just sit around and go cold, terminating the thing we call life.
My eyes move reluctantly from one spot on the ceiling to another, resisting. A hand pushes my hair back. I slip over the countless others that surround me, waiting.
Waiting as if I am a molting phoenix or a shedding snake. Waiting for me to blink.
Day 12
I imagine there shall be a soundtrack to my life. I fear it shall comprise of silence. A brief interlude in the telling of other greater tales. Tales that involve so much more than stillness and a stony quiet.
A finger twitch to ascertain life and a flinching pupil to seal the thought. A rhythmic beep to keep everyone happy.
People expect my tale to be one of great sorrow, misery and tragedies. They wait for me to gather my limbs and speak of something gravely that makes their hair stand on end and their toes curl unseen.
They expect a reason behind me, guarding me, solving their questions. Reasons are elaborate excuses given to justify action, but reasoning is largely a feat in futility. I give no reason, I answer no questions, yet I exist needlessly.
Day 25
A ray of hope lands in my room struggling through the dark foggy thoughts. It glints faintly there, lying on the floor and I try to will it towards me. Hope is a strange thing, there can exist plenty in the world, and none inside you. I try to stir, to accept that there might be a chance of reclamation, that my speech will redeem some part of me. But, irrelevant of the passage of time, the ray stays stationary, waiting for me to evoke it.
I don't know, how to. I don't know, why. I don't know.
Day 15
I have now worked through my winding tale of the past a couple of times. With each retelling, my eyes die more, and my voice becomes someone else. Those people become a race I don't believe in. I feel comfortable in the slime that has been suffocating me, finally. To shake it off, shrug off the thick layer of slime that coats your eyeballs and your heart, it isn't a question of effort, but possibility.
And to me, it is not.
Day 20
Strange as it may sound, I have died more. No number of eyes or hearts can move me. I have deadened all my senses, cause to feel nothing is better than to recognize everything. There is a force around me that is asking me to hang on longer, to stay put, to push past these stubborn doors, and the force is growing, its pressing against the windows, and my heart.
I cannot continue. I shall not continue.
To continue would mean that I have to exist in a life where my ideals are shattered, and where I am shattered. Where the basic fabric of human function is shredded.
I do not wish to continue.
Day 30
I leave today. They're trying so hard, but I leave. It grows inexorably strong, my urge to do something, to move, but even stronger is my body's willpower shutting down. My brain is unable to accept the brutal truth. I give up my revolution to others.
Other women will pick it up, other men will pray, many things are bound to happen.
The first day of my revolution shall not be my last, this I can promise you. This I can grant my soul.
To return whole and to maim and malign those that were capable of inflicting my devastation.
When I return, I shall be stronger that their horror, and flower out of this revolution.
But for now, I will leave. Leave the ray of hope behind, cowering under the raw power of my horror.
For now, I will leave.
*Dedicated to December's revolution, and every woman's pain.
Today is the first day of my revolution. The world stirs around me, slowly, and I curl around the thought. Snaking my arm round my pillow, I will a gracious tear, but it doesn't fall, jut sits there, unwilling.
The crowd buzzes round and round, like I'm the decadent pot of honey instigating the temporary lives of flies. Or maybe I'm a rotting piece of flesh, discarded as easily my clothes. Perhaps the people feel restlessness creep into their houses from the crack under their doors, and the rush of wind when they hurriedly enter homes, flicking on lights to chase away darkness that sits like tar in the corners.
My pores probably seep this unrest, failing to affect my blood in the least.
Day 5
A fading lamp flickers in the corner. It holds my attention for the most part. The writhing flame expresses much of what I don't. If only someone would listen. They're trying to listen to the wrong thing. Ears should be put to use to sense the sound of fingernails scraping against winter skin, the slow hiss and crackle of matchsticks and the sound of hope falling six feet under.
I try to understand the idea behind movement, and the hustle and bustle people seem to hold in high regard, but I abandon that affair for another day. Tonight, I make peace with some things I wish not to comprehend.
My mind strains to hear other people's thoughts, rather than the superfluous words they supply. Immense effort must go into forming sentences that convey so little. So tonight, I lift my arm to silence the orator. The most I have done today. People are stunned, invariably stirring debate.
Of course, no one thinks to ask me, or I would have told them.
Day 1
Inertia, is the rebellion against movement. But inertia isn't voluntary. Every heartbeat is a push, effort taken to move blood from one place to another, or it would just sit around and go cold, terminating the thing we call life.
My eyes move reluctantly from one spot on the ceiling to another, resisting. A hand pushes my hair back. I slip over the countless others that surround me, waiting.
Waiting as if I am a molting phoenix or a shedding snake. Waiting for me to blink.
Day 12
I imagine there shall be a soundtrack to my life. I fear it shall comprise of silence. A brief interlude in the telling of other greater tales. Tales that involve so much more than stillness and a stony quiet.
A finger twitch to ascertain life and a flinching pupil to seal the thought. A rhythmic beep to keep everyone happy.
People expect my tale to be one of great sorrow, misery and tragedies. They wait for me to gather my limbs and speak of something gravely that makes their hair stand on end and their toes curl unseen.
They expect a reason behind me, guarding me, solving their questions. Reasons are elaborate excuses given to justify action, but reasoning is largely a feat in futility. I give no reason, I answer no questions, yet I exist needlessly.
Day 25
A ray of hope lands in my room struggling through the dark foggy thoughts. It glints faintly there, lying on the floor and I try to will it towards me. Hope is a strange thing, there can exist plenty in the world, and none inside you. I try to stir, to accept that there might be a chance of reclamation, that my speech will redeem some part of me. But, irrelevant of the passage of time, the ray stays stationary, waiting for me to evoke it.
I don't know, how to. I don't know, why. I don't know.
Day 15
I have now worked through my winding tale of the past a couple of times. With each retelling, my eyes die more, and my voice becomes someone else. Those people become a race I don't believe in. I feel comfortable in the slime that has been suffocating me, finally. To shake it off, shrug off the thick layer of slime that coats your eyeballs and your heart, it isn't a question of effort, but possibility.
And to me, it is not.
Day 20
Strange as it may sound, I have died more. No number of eyes or hearts can move me. I have deadened all my senses, cause to feel nothing is better than to recognize everything. There is a force around me that is asking me to hang on longer, to stay put, to push past these stubborn doors, and the force is growing, its pressing against the windows, and my heart.
I cannot continue. I shall not continue.
To continue would mean that I have to exist in a life where my ideals are shattered, and where I am shattered. Where the basic fabric of human function is shredded.
I do not wish to continue.
Day 30
I leave today. They're trying so hard, but I leave. It grows inexorably strong, my urge to do something, to move, but even stronger is my body's willpower shutting down. My brain is unable to accept the brutal truth. I give up my revolution to others.
Other women will pick it up, other men will pray, many things are bound to happen.
The first day of my revolution shall not be my last, this I can promise you. This I can grant my soul.
To return whole and to maim and malign those that were capable of inflicting my devastation.
When I return, I shall be stronger that their horror, and flower out of this revolution.
But for now, I will leave. Leave the ray of hope behind, cowering under the raw power of my horror.
For now, I will leave.
*Dedicated to December's revolution, and every woman's pain.
