A Fae's Exploding Brain

[Drunken_Angel]

There is life in death and clarity in insanity. In darkness one finds solace.

This is not a home, for my heart is the Vortex. These pages reside in a fae’s book of scribbles: a loosely bound mind that reeks of blood, absinthe, and submission.

Read if you like, contribute a word or two. Who knows what will come to life.

 

[Drunken_Angel]

My compassion was the first layer of my mind to be lost

People mistake a lack of compassion for apathy, but they err in doing so. I find myself very much engaged. I find the expression of sadness fascinating, for example, and I find myself dissecting every little nuance. The way the eyes narrow a fraction as they fill makes me wonder if I witnessing a purely physical response. Is the narrowing a subtle buttressing of the dykes in an attempt to deny an impending deluge, or is it more of a feeble, final protest before a sense of disbelief looses it's ability to veil stark betrayal? I liken it to the futile raising of a hand against a machete.

Tears will flow.

With compassion's loss, I am more engaged than ever. i'm not afraid to just be. I'm not ashamed of my depravity, of my fascination of other people's suffering. I am free, in the moment, to observe, to critique. Sure, one day it will probably be me in her place, and I'm certain my suffering shall taste as salty-sweet as hers.

Suffering is beautiful, it is art, and it is to be enjoyed for it's own sake. It hardly matters who is on the receiving end.

 

[Drunken_Angel]

Emotions rise like water, swelling from the deep. I suppose there is a tide to it, a regular pattern of rising and falling, but I don't know, for I am nowhere near the shore. the emotions defy my eyes' desire to find perch upon solid ground- to understand the land from which they originate. Somewhere deep beneath, there is land- faith tells me it is true. somewhere.

I know that only death will take me there, for only when I've dipped beneath the surface and my flesh has lost its breath will it be I finally come to rest. Until then, I rise and fall with tides taken upon faith, Every kind of emotion hits me, sadness, anger, fear, loneliness, love, happiness, excitement. There is beauty in suffering and ugliness in satiety, and not any one of these is connect to another.

I'm lost. I'm drifting, and with only the ocean for my comfort. There is nothing else- but the odd thing is, that is enough. Is it faith that keeps me afloat? A lie made true by sheer stubbornness? The mother receives. One day I will become the water, or I will drift lifeless to land. Until that day, I find comfort in tears, and I find fire in desperation, and none of it matters.

 

[Drunken_Angel]

They say that absinthe isn't a drink at all. Not a mortal one, anyway. They say that it is composed of a fae's tears, pure emotion trapped in a bottle- inspiration, grief, anger, happiness or just sometimes a plain old giggle fit.

This is why it is such a revered and coveted drink. In a world of dulled emotions, bodies blindly trudging ahead, dense and lifeless save for their movement, a moment of true emotion is like water to the desert.

 

[Drunken_Angel]

My tired feet [ feet=i tired=i]
Carried me to the edge [ carry.n i r edge]
Before me stretched desert [ before i stretch.n desert]
Dry, desolate, beautiful.

Millions of tears falling [millions cry fall (infinitive)]
Might bring life.
But I have only two.
I am alone.

Two eyes, eternity.

Get someone else.

I closed the book. It's pages coming together in a sound the most would associate with completion, but whose intensity expressed frustration. I was out of my depth and I knew it. Part of speech, tenses, prepositions. I knew it, but continued to try.

Why wasn't enough to speak in English? The poem was poignant, an true expression of real tears that followed the metaphor of my verse- rolling my cheeks being the desert. I didn't even know why I was crying. I couldn't.

Sometimes a pain goes so deeply that you cannot see it's origins. Was I translating it into egyptian to disguise it? A layer of obscurity to clothe my nakedness? Perhaps I wanted to put them into hieroglyphs to immortalize them, to pin them? Each glyph an icon, and icons are pinned to stone.

Anything but shifting sand.

But now the book is closed, I've cased to try. Perhaps I should have waited.

 

[Drunken_Angel]

An onyx mist,
through a crimson veil
A beating heart
struggling.

It's not mine,
Nor yours
But when it lies still,

Darkness