My plan is to start at the sort of end, jump to the beginning, and work my way back. This may change if I get ideas. The lab felt painfully, overwhelmingly quiet. Ienzo often found himself fixating on the steady thrum of his heartbeat in moments like these, counting the beats, considering the pauses. How it would catch, sometimes, on certain thoughts. How it raced for others. The awkward newness of being reunited with his heart had passed in time, but he found its reactions still surprised him in moments like these.
In the past, Ienzo — no, Zexion — had felt the presence of darkness and other Nobodies more than he saw them. It had been a strange but comforting way to remind himself that he was real, that there were others like him. That although he could not feel true emotions, there was some solace in the knowledge that he did not bear the curse of emptiness alone. A bit like reaching out with a phantom limb, he mused.
Uncertain and cautious at first, then as much a part of him as an arm, or as his jagged blue hair. Demyx had felt so different standing there, but he had looked the same. Same tousled blonde hair, the same playful expression behind his bright blue eyes. Same cavalier disposition, it seemed.
Somehow that made the silence more deafening than before. More maddening. He searched his emotions, inventorying them like he did when new lab supply shipments arrived.
Excitement was there, confusion, too. Maybe loneliness and abandonment, a reminder of emotions common in his youth after his parents had orphaned him so young. But mixed among these emotions was a nameless tug that begged to follow Demyx through the dark doorway. It was hard for him, someone who craved knowledge so desperately, to admit there were gaps in his human experience by virtue of dying so young and coming into adulthood devoid of emotions.
Now he was faced with moments like these, where an emotion with no name sought to rule him. But dark doors like the one Demyx had vanished through were beyond his abilities now.
Tuesday 2 July Wednesday 3 July Thursday 4 July Friday 5 July Saturday 6 July Sunday 7 July Monday 8 July Tuesday 9 July Wednesday 10 July Friday 12 July Sunday 14 July Monday 15 July Tuesday 16 July Wednesday 17 July Thursday 18 July Friday 19 July Saturday 20 July Sunday 21 July Monday 22 July Tuesday 23 July Wednesday 24 July Thursday 25 July Friday 26 July Saturday 27 July Sunday 28 July Monday 29 July Tuesday 30 July Wednesday 31 July Thursday 1 August Friday 2 August Saturday 3 August Sunday 4 August Monday 5 August Tuesday 6 August Wednesday 7 August Thursday 8 August Friday 9 August Saturday 10 August Sunday 11 August Monday 12 August Tuesday 13 August Wednesday 14 August Thursday 15 August Friday 16 August Saturday 17 August Sunday 18 August Monday 19 August Tuesday 20 August Wednesday 21 August Thursday 22 August Friday 23 August Saturday 24 August Sunday 25 August Monday 26 August Tuesday 27 August Wednesday 28 August Thursday 29 August Friday 30 August Saturday 31 August Sunday 1 September Monday 2 September Tuesday 3 September Wednesday 4 September Thursday 5 September Friday 6 September Saturday 7 September Sunday 8 September Monday 9 September Tuesday 10 September It does not rain.
It smells as if the clouds have waited. For this moment. I do not know any more what clouds think. Once I could hear them speaking. You congested my ears. With oaths. And knot.
Definition of Ignes fatui Meaning and Definition
And honey of wasps from the depths of your overgrown soul. Your naked body littered with wounds of your own war. Deep injuries.
The child you was died long ago. A white shade from recollections.
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Cobwebbed memorys of forlorn houses. You search for it in the bloody flesh of strangers.
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- Ignes fatui or apt similitude? — the apparent denunciation of metaphor by Thomas Hobbes.
Sometimes you find it. If it smiles, you ram two scissors deeply into its face.
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Your knees are red. Inflamed scurf. The subsoil is rough. A carpet from chippings and salt.
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The winter was rough, wet and cold. And snow melts slowly if hearts are cold. Now it rains. Turn your body to the back. In the diying grass of the last summer. Flies, beetles and woodlice millipedes and strawberry spiders.
Drops of water on your naked legs. Straggly hair. Your fertile body bleeds an egg from your uterus. I spread your thighs. Water mixes with blood. I recognise that you are not shaved. Sticky hair. Red, dead grass. Insects drown in the fizzy blood.
The sky weeps cold waters over your twitching body. You are excited. And waits. Waits for my hands, lips. My tongue.