Reclaiming home

Traveling to the west, only a few hundred miles, is akin to traveling to another country, well in a way. I cross the river into the central lands and there are different words, dialects and postures. I knew it would have some variables, but when I find the truth of it, I find it preposterous. Within a finger's joint on the face of my map, I can be completely misread. So be it.

It's lovely to be home again. Although it's changed, I know I prefer it. It's still dark, cold and wet, for the most part, but it's home. You know how home can be hell, but it's your hell? Yes, you see. Even if you return in a mortal coil unknown, you return regardless.

There are too many places to go, you see, because there are too many portions of me. Hundreds more miles south of here, I will visit another home to me. When I close my eyes, I will be there, upon the banks of another river. Music will heighten senses and smells will reignite nostalgia. Bustling crowds and the sound of bells awaken my memories now.

Again, it will be different. Only a few hundred, many three, and the dialect will change, the mood will deepen and I will have to tap into something else. Within a finger's joint, I will travel to another world, a modern world, one that is foreign, in all aspects, to the world from before. Just as in distance, in time...I will be completely misread. So be it.

Das ist meine kamph

Does it make sense to continue when the pain is so ripe? It is so vicious that an emptiness is left in its wake. I think of different ways to do it, every night. I fantasize about shooting myself in the head, taking too many pills and even walking in front of a truck. I think about other ways as well. It does get that bad, you know. It’s almost unbearable at times, and no one understands just how difficult living is. It’s hell, as if hell was a hollow place stuck in repetition. So, does it make sense? What meaning comes from this endless misery? Mein Kamph…

I know you wonder why it hurts too much. I have no simple answers and that only makes it more painful. There are too many words and too many images inside my head. I have a thirst for too many things, to boot. There is definitely a stimulus overload, an attack upon my senses. At any moment, someone could walk through my bedroom door and ask me what I was doing. I couldn’t tell them because I have forgotten what this story as supposed to be about.

Last year, I thought I was Cinderella. I lost my shoe in the midst of monstrous machines, grinding and molding steel all around me. A blue-eyed prince pretended to save me and in the process cut off my head for the queen. I was no longer Cinderella, but Alice. In the looking glass, I saw the truth. My face was not mine, but another. At midnight, when I was still on the verge of turning from Cinderella mindset, I turned to the prince in order to tell him my secrets. It was a time when I knew what I wanted and felt like human. It was betrayal, the night before he killed me. I knew it was too deep and he might drown without my unwilling sacrifice.

That was a year ago, wait, maybe two, or no, it was three. Time has passed, I have disentigrated and something happened to my muse. I cannot saw the darkness is gone, because it coaxes me to end it all. The darkness is different, and I think it doesn’t grow in the same vessels as before.

In times such as this, my words do not make sense. I think it is because the filing cabinet was tipped over, spilling the contents across the floor. Cinderella and the prince came waltzing in,  scattering files all across the room. They didn’t care how messy they were or how their actions would bring devious consequences. The wind blew twice, no thrice and the paper flew into the winds of time, scattered among the grasses in the field, between the pines and deep within the dark corners where the fairy hides.

I want to end it all, I do. I am in so much pain. Every day, full of sunshine and glorious blue skies, I see darkness. I hear despair, my chest is hollow in a dull thudding ache. I want to die, die as they died, all of them. All the humans die and it is over. Whether there be heaven or hell, nothing or nothing, I want to die. There is no point in fighting this war. I have no solution. I have no plans.

I have no art to spare. There is nothing left here.

But, of course, that’s how I feel tonight. Tomorrow, on the other hand, I could right as rain and bright as the sunshine’s smile.

I am unpredictable and utterly confused. There are few constants for me, they are dark, they are sordid and they are Godlike.

Till morrow then…

1817 Bromley

1817 Bromley

Father didn’t come home as he promised. It’s been days since he was to make an appearance. There were men, come calling, I heard them tell father to travel into town. Father was strange after that, but he promised he wouldn’t be long away.

I watch by the window because my heart is heavy for him. Although he is hard with me, I cannot stop feeling guilt for how I displease him, how I failed to be a lady. Even my book of poems fails to bring me peace-Rosetti, this one is dark and tragic. I cannot remember the name, as my book in on the floor.

There is a knock. I know it’s Erzebetha but I do not wish to see her or talk to her. I do not want to hear her breathe. I hate the way she looks at me with pity. I see it… I know something is not right.

“Mistress, you should get some rest.”

She tries the door but I have locked it against her. I pick up my book and sit back down at the window. I can feel the winter chill creep through the cracks around the glass. There's a raven, on the branch of a tree by the garden. He turns to look at me and I feel the darkness twist and churn within my chest. The black bird flies away and it deepens my despair.

“Leave me be.”

 The dark comes outside my reading, and with it more hopes dashed and tears welling.

“Father, please come home. I think I heard mother wailing from her earthen bed and the night birds sing a song that turns my blood to ice.” I whisper into the corners of the room, hoping some lonely insect might hear me.

 Father…

I close my eyes and I remember a face. It was a brown face with almond eyes and full lips. Yes, it was a native, I am sure of it. Of all things now and then, I remember that face, and yet I was just a child.  There is an image dancing, the bellowing deep throat calls ringing through a scorching night. I remember the fire, fire everywhere and the smell of death. Yes, I can remember this, just as I remember the ocean, the smell of musty salt water sloshing beneath the hull of the ship. I remember the great storms and the men who pulled me down into a darkness of the ship.

 I saw London and I see Bromley, a cold place, my home. There are so many memories rushing through my head now. I want to keep my mind occupied, I want to stop the horrors that my imagination creates and I have to stay awake. I know, if I fall asleep, I will wake with a new dread, an empty digging feeling because father has yet to come home.

I cannot stay awake. It’s useless. I feel it pulling me under, the arms of sleep. It pulls me beneath those crashing waves, those deep green, foam-crowned waves and it takes me back to that strange place. It’s not working. I wish to return home but I keep waking up on the red banks of the savage land. I see her, she is brown with long black hair and piercing eyes. She carries an infant in a satchel on her chest. There are others with her, Europeans maybe, three of them. Their voices converse in kindness and not condescending as the others. They stare down at me and frown. The brown lady speaks in a language that comforts me. I lift a hand to my face and gasp. My hands are brown, brown as the brown skinned lady towering above me. I feel my face and I imagine that I would look like the natives too.

Waking from sleep, I whimper. Images flood my mind as fast as I can catch my breath. My breathing is labored, just as my mind is fighting too. I push off the cotton sheets from my bed and rush to the window. The sky is overcast, hung with clouds. I turn toward my door and call to him.

“Father, are you here?”

There is nothing. I can hear creaks and moans because my home is silent but for the snores of the servants. I am no lady. My dress is stained, and I hold the hem of my skirt in clenched fists. In the looking glass, I see no signs of my salvation. I see her face. It is not my face, it is not the face of my father. I see something peculiar, something alien in that image. She looks back at me and shakes her head.

I trace the lines of my prominent nose, my lips and my almond eyes, all with the tip of my brown finger. I will never be what father wanted. Even the light from the window cannot illuminate my dark skin.

Father…

I remember the dead, in piles around me. I hear voices, angry voices sounding across the masses of savages. They are coming. I see them walking amongst the bodies, they are pale, different and I am frightened. I weep as pale hands lift me from dark dead hands.

Father…

My reflection whispers back to me.

"Wake up, spirit."

Forceful writing

They say one of the best times to write is when you feel horrible inside. It’s then that your words can have depth unimaginable. In ways, this is true. In ways, however, I feel empty. I fantacize aoout death because I want to stop hurting, and death would eliminate the hurt. I can write about that, but there isn’t much more I can elaborate on, at the moment.

I can try, and here goes. I wanted to read a book, a book about fairies. IN fact, the book is called ‘faireies’. I looked through the first couple pages, gazing at the illustrations and reading a little bit about the Cornish beliefs. The boundaries kept by the fairy folk, elf folk alike fascinated me. It was just past the boundaries of human properties that you would find the fairies and elves. There, you could be tricked by all sorts of fancies-intelligent vegetation, living and material tunes, even whispers and you could even be fooled by another human. Of course, it wasn’t a real human in origin.

I like this book. I think I will continue reading for a while, It reminds me of the past, when I would wander through the forests listening to music, reading poetry and turning into something else. I miss the forests, and I wonder now, if that is why I think about committing suicide. I cannot go home. Home, in so many ways, does not exist.

I want to write and yet, I want to stop writing. This feeling is so complex that I couldn’t be explained in its entirety.

I feel horrible inside, but I think I will try to sleep. Sometimes, sleep is how I stay alive.

The Morbid Ghost, Shared Interests

“I’m going to tell you what the sun feels like to a dead man. “

I spoke to nothing because nothing was all that was left when the end didn’t come. It’s like the universe in a bottle, confined with no end. The sun would be merciful if only I could fly that far.

 The sun is a ball of fire, when far away from humans, it burns the top layer of their skin. I was human once, and I can vaguely remember strolling along the Sicilian coast basking in the sunlight. I think that happened, just as I think I remember the taste of fresh bread and fruit. These things are distant, but the sun to a dead man is something I can relate to. At the moment, the sun is digging its fingers into my flesh and sending tingling sensations from top to bottom. My head hurts, it’s filled with thousands of buzzing insects throbbing beneath my scalp and my fingers, they are growing, stretching outward expanding the bed of my nails. The vast network of my circulatory system is alive with burning blood. I feel it and it’s as if I am human, but not quite. My objective is to let the sun finish burning me. I have high hopes, although I’ve lost count of my suicidal attempts.

So why will it work this time? It won’t.

I open my eyes and they are alive with fire as well. My left eyelid sticks open, but I peel it free. There is little moisture and it is pink with my damned blood. I wipe the pale red splotches from beneath my eyes.

“It hurts. Good.”

“Why is it good for you to hurt?”

The voice is smooth and sweet, and It encases me in its loveliness. It sounds like a woman, and because I love to look at women so much, I have to see this one as well.  I turn to see something moving against the backdrop of the treeline.  It is thin, a momentary smudge in the green landscape. I watch the thing grow bigger, painting a gray smudge against my surroundings. This is no ordinary woman, this one is a phantom.

“Hi there.”

The gray soup boils in the air. It turns and swirls creating knots of solid looking pieces. The pieces meld together and pull into portions. Two portions form hands and one large ball of smoke forms a mass high and center. A head and face, surrounded by red billowy hair frames the image making an expression. It smiles.

“hi”

She was beautiful, or rather her own memory of herself was comely. I know a bit about phantoms and that’s how it works. When you see a ghost, you are only seeing an image of how the dead saw themselves in life. Of course, they could be projecting the most attractive rendering of themselves to date, but either way, a ghost was only a memory incarnate. I’ve seen only a few ghosts before. My brother was a phantom, he came to me long after his death. His apparition was the only one I had encountered until I moved to the New World. Here, I saw things that weren’t ghosts, they were something else.

“Seems as though you’re deep in thought, sir.”

“yes, I was thinking of…phantoms, to be exact, demons rather. Are you friend or foe?”

She looked confused by my question. The features contorted sending tendrils of gray spinning away from her face.

“Friend or foe? I came to say hi. It’s not that serious, you know.”

I saw a scowl form on her lips and even though she was dead, she was adorable. I thought she might enjoy a little teasing.

“Well, I believe you’ve come for me soul. I am damned and God has sent you to fetch me, right?”

Her scowl deepened. “I guess you are going to be a pain in the arse. This was a mistake.”

The beautiful girl’s form began to fade. Her face faded back into the gray mist that birthed her. I immediately felt regret.

“Wait, I’m sorry. Won’t you please come back and speak with me.”

“No”

But that phantom lady lied. She swirled around me and hovered just above my head. I looked up to see her pretty face. She gasped and pulled back into the cloud.

“I saw you there.” I pointed while looking up.  “So Come out and speak with me. I promise I will behave this time.”

It was silent. The sun of high noon was dampened somehow, and all around me, the air grew cold.

“Is that better?”

Her voice was sweet and filled with pain.

“Is what better, my dear?”

“The sun was hurting you, burning your eyes. I thought about shielding you and there you have it. It worked.”

I laughed, for I realized what she had done. IF heaven had come down to protect me, it would be something like this. Too bad I didn’t want protecting. She seemed amused by her feat, I heard her tinkling laughter on the wind.

“I did good, right?”

“Not really. Why do you think a vampire is out in the noonday sun? Why do you think I’m not burnt to a crisp?”

She gasped. “So, you are a vampire then. Wow, how do you stay alive? Is the sunlight thing just a fantasy story?”

“Well, partially. Besides, I’ve been coming out here for quite some time now.”

“Why? Do you like the sunlight, then?”

“I have no preference. The sunlight brings back memories, no doubt, but I am angered by the sun.”

“Then why do you come out here?”

I wasn’t sure of the reason myself. I only wished she could read my mind and be done with it. How could I explain the complexities of the whole thing?

Her face formed right in front of mine. She was grieved by what I was saying.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to read a book which never ended?”

She didn’t speak. Her gray mist didn’t attempt to help her form words this time, at least not for a moment. I saw something in her face, something familiar. Her countanence hardened then and I knew she was about to lay on me, what Jim always referred to as, “a revelation.” She wasn’t just a spectator here.

“You understand, don’t you?”

Her expression softened and melancholy took the place of her anger.

“I know how it feels to never have an ending.”

“How can you know what it feels like to never die? You’re dead.”

Her face changed somehow, the mist grew darker around her eyes. She laughed, and as she did, birds erupted from the pines on the border of the field. Her laughter was human and it sounded throughout the forest, making echoes. The silence and the creaking trees replaced her maddening laughter.

I felt a tickling sensation near my right ear. Words, silken and sad pressed into my ear. Although there were no biological mechanics in which she could form speech, and there were no fleshly lips in which to utter the words, she spoke regardless.

“Who says death is the end? You can stay out here until your flesh crisps to nothing and your bones dissolve, but…it doesn’t always end.”

I stood still letting her words move their way down into my being. I understood what she meant.

“So, why are you here? Why did you choose to speak to me? You cannot move on, can you? You’re trapped.”

She was gone, just as suddenly as she appeared. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to know why she was here in this time and this place.

“Why did you speak to me?”

But it was too late. She was gone, melted into the shadows that formed at the edge of the field. The sun dropped behind the clouds and drops of rain pelted my face.

Another day was ending but my end was nowhere in sight.

Corvus

Piscis Austrinus