The Empty Room
NOX
....black. Night wadded into walls of bone. Active here, it, they, something moves unseen. Fearful blundering in this space. Is this me any longer? How did I come by this cavity in time? Out?
Panic, like the wail of a mourning wife shoots its desperate flames. The questions fly up like sparks, mixing with the noise of the Empty Room. Sharp pain in the thigh, an edge. Some one passes by. There are other voices around.
Turned loose in this midden of darkness. That is the mettle of your blood, lips mashed against a solid wall. At least even this place has its limits.
By chance an arm trailing from a form you had forgotten whips across a switch as you tumble. And
LUX
bright light fills a familiar room.
The questions frame themselves again, as others with faces like petroleum pools walk in, walk out, lending colour and rhythm to walls that pulse with the vigour of living membranes. Their voices bleed from skins of shadow, each phrase an echo of another half-grasped.
The UNinvited continue to come.
the Living Room seems comfortable enough. There is your chair, at the fireside your dreams had wrought in hope and rumour. Photographs, faces from the past, expressions of duty, disappointment and reptilian rage smirk from the slideshow on the firelit walls. You stoop to rise, feel your own weight - but there is no hand, no leg and indeed No Body There. And yet....
MENS
You are HERE.
The light seems heavy with rumour. Now the visitors stream thick, their forms bleeding into one another, trailing a smear of noise, emotion, data without perspective through and around and over everything in the place. It is purple, green, flashes of silver and black, clamouring and whispering, flowerheads and naked forms and songs and conversations half-observed, this is Your Home. This, dear fellow, is your Mind.
The colours, the maddening voices, the strange viscosity of feeling they exude, all whipped into a vortex that is your mind entire. No mouth to vomit, no eyes to close. Your storm experiences itself, time-raddled WirrWarr of accidents and hopes, the laws stitched from happenstance.
Swallowing Itself.
All falling apart.
AGITAT
Escape. What comes after Nothing?
And then we awake again,
MOLEM
and the bed is soft and damp, and all those horrid beasts have gone, gone, gone, back behind the veil of Names, their consequence unseen behind a pattern you call chance.
Quelle? Quel horreur!
....black. Night wadded into walls of bone. Active here, it, they, something moves unseen. Fearful blundering in this space. Is this me any longer? How did I come by this cavity in time? Out?
Panic, like the wail of a mourning wife shoots its desperate flames. The questions fly up like sparks, mixing with the noise of the Empty Room. Sharp pain in the thigh, an edge. Some one passes by. There are other voices around.
Turned loose in this midden of darkness. That is the mettle of your blood, lips mashed against a solid wall. At least even this place has its limits.
By chance an arm trailing from a form you had forgotten whips across a switch as you tumble. And
LUX
bright light fills a familiar room.
The questions frame themselves again, as others with faces like petroleum pools walk in, walk out, lending colour and rhythm to walls that pulse with the vigour of living membranes. Their voices bleed from skins of shadow, each phrase an echo of another half-grasped.
The UNinvited continue to come.
the Living Room seems comfortable enough. There is your chair, at the fireside your dreams had wrought in hope and rumour. Photographs, faces from the past, expressions of duty, disappointment and reptilian rage smirk from the slideshow on the firelit walls. You stoop to rise, feel your own weight - but there is no hand, no leg and indeed No Body There. And yet....
MENS
You are HERE.
The light seems heavy with rumour. Now the visitors stream thick, their forms bleeding into one another, trailing a smear of noise, emotion, data without perspective through and around and over everything in the place. It is purple, green, flashes of silver and black, clamouring and whispering, flowerheads and naked forms and songs and conversations half-observed, this is Your Home. This, dear fellow, is your Mind.
The colours, the maddening voices, the strange viscosity of feeling they exude, all whipped into a vortex that is your mind entire. No mouth to vomit, no eyes to close. Your storm experiences itself, time-raddled WirrWarr of accidents and hopes, the laws stitched from happenstance.
Swallowing Itself.
All falling apart.
AGITAT
Escape. What comes after Nothing?
And then we awake again,
MOLEM
and the bed is soft and damp, and all those horrid beasts have gone, gone, gone, back behind the veil of Names, their consequence unseen behind a pattern you call chance.
Quelle? Quel horreur!
posted by Fanshawe at 6:35 AM
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