Post by brodie on Nov 8, 2018 6:29:02 GMT -5
Have you ever sat and listened to the rain, fall down the surface of the world as it hits; drop after drop, dissipating into one stream, one single flow that curves around the every edge of the world, touches everything, running particles, trickling little pieces of itself upon us; do you ever think about what becomes of the rain, as it falls from the sky to land at our feet; as it pours from the heaven tearing open above to rest upon your flesh, seeping in through scrapes and pores… Becoming a part of what you once were.
Have you ever considered what the rain can do, once it seeps beneath your skin and becomes a part of you. What is its purpose to lie there, in wait; a part of your blood, your breath, sucked around your body on your own betraying nervous system. Those cells, treacherous cells, carrying a part of the world within you; did you ever consider what it will do, when the rain stops, when the heaven can spare not a single more drop.
She had been listening to that same sound for hours; it was enough to drive her insane. It was so repetitive and yet, it had no rhythm, it did not repeat. And so, she had tried to count it, tried to hear the beat; more times than she could count - and well - there wasn’t one you see. And she would know.
She should know.
She had been listening to that same sound for hours; like the beating of rain drops on an old tin roof. It pounded, it throbbed, it thrust itself upon her psyche, perhaps the sound wasn’t there anymore at all. Perhaps it had stopped hours ago but still she heard it, still it ravaged her mind, shook her limbs.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
She had been listening to that same sound for hours; pressed close to the floorboards, the stench of wet and rot in her nose seemed almost all too familiar and she had welcomed it. The familiarity of that touch, damp and dank, it reminded her of all she had belonged to before tonight. It kept her there, beneath that bed, where the light did not touch; where the sound could find her.
She had been listening.
Listening to that same sound for hours.
So when it began to draw closer to her hiding place, I suppose it was only natural she hadn’t noticed. Can you imagine how deep into your brain that sound would seep, it would feel as though it had become a part of you, I would suppose. It would beat through you, uneven and unsteady until you weren’t listening at all really; it is a part of you now, you breathe it in, you cannot hear anything but it. So who could blame her really, not to notice the change in pace; not to tell as the sound grew closer, louder… Not just a thud anymore at all.
Thud.
Thud.
Scrape.
That sound, the sharp, unexpected sound drew her out of the dank and the stench. Obtrusive, like a scream pressed directly to her eardrum, even in her absent state she could not help but hear it; could not help but to be drawn out from the place she knew to be safe. Skin sticking to skin; sweat.. profuse. She hadn’t noticed she was sweating, tucked away there beneath the rickety old frame of a bed in a house she didn’t know. But the smell.
That smell seemed all too familiar and she welcomed it, even as the scraping became longer, was that scraping? She couldn’t remember what scraping sounded like anymore, she wasn’t sure - you see - it had been so long since she had heard anything but that long, drawn out thudding, it had been so long since she had felt the light on her skin. It felt as though even the artificial production the light, bare bulb, swinging above that bed. The bed, in the house she didn’t know; was burning into her very flesh. She should draw back, return to her place beneath that frame, the smell…
She already missed the smell.
And it burned; that light that bore down to give shadows to the room; it burned against milky white flesh that had never seen the sun - she could not describe the sun should you ask her to - but she could paint a sunset so beautiful you would never believe her truth… As the thought crossed her mind, she looked for the widow, perhaps now she would see the sun, perhaps it would burn less than the light that bore down now, the light that let the shadows into the room; she didn’t like the shadows, but she was not afraid.
Big girls don’t cry.
That’s what they tell little girls who want to be grown, but that isn’t true; we all cry but big girls, big girls do not know fear; big girls grow from little girls pressed to floorboard beneath rickety bed frames in houses they do not know. Big girls feel tears drip down their cheeks like rolling fat telltales but they do not fear; they know that there are no ghost stories that can compete; there is nothing that can compete. She didn’t like the shadows.
But she was not afraid.
Feet, scuffling across the floorboards; bare feet that dragged toes through tiny splinters. Tiny fractures of wood, rising up as though to escape what they were contained within, pulled at her feet; tore at her toes, diving into the flesh but she did not notice; did not flinch, skirting around the edges to avoid the shadows who waited; they held their breath and the waited, just one slip, one touch… She would not touch the shadows. Bare feet, tracing across the wooden floor, somehow soft beneath her feet, weak and old from the rain that poured into your insides.
Trickling.
Dripping.
Thudding.
That sound, again; she had forgotten about the sound; it was like a lure. Somewhere within her she could feel the pull of that sound, it was almost time. Her time, she was supposed to wait there, beneath that bed - the bed in the house of which she did not know the name - for her turn, her call. She had forgotten it though; she had been listening for hours now, that same sound, like a record on repeat. She thought that maybe once, the sounds had not been the same sound at all, rising and falling, tempo, beat, pitch, ever changing. But now they were all just a sound, one sound, two sounds, they meant nothing and yet… She followed the sound, what was that sound?
A scrape.
Shadows waited at the door; she could feel their presence behind the painted little frame that marked her exit. Pink and white, the paint seemed to fall away as her fingers touched at it, curling beneath those fingers that stroked the wood and it all fell away; that happened sometimes, when she touched it, things would fall away - a marvel, a gift..
A curse.
She could fix the door, if she knew where she had left her paintbrush… The bed, she suspected it laid there in the bed, with crumpled sheets and one single pillow, lumpy and sad it sat in the middle of that bed. Her paintbrush, she suspected, lived there with the pillow, she would clutch to it, but not today - the shadows curved closer to the bed, flooding the room; she would not drown here, they would not touch, not once.. She knew that sound. That scrape that lie beyond the door.
But she would need her paintbrush.
My father told me I was an painter; the things I could do with hands and a paintbrush you see; they are unmatched by any other. He would tell me I was created by the hands of god himself to do the work he saw for the world.
As a child, I was told I was created, by his prayer; that I was not born. I was not birthed, but manifested through his greatness, that it was his vision that gave me life. I had not existed before him, just an existence without a name, there was no Brodie, no art, there was no extension of himself to send to the world and without it, there would be no beauty in this world, not as it was intended, not as it could be.
He taught me to paint; agonizing hours spent dipping and dipping that brush until the well would run dry, until we would need another, and another, I lost count, counting higher than a girl could count, the wells we ran dry so that I could learn to paint as he had intended, so I could complete the work as he envisioned, so that I may pass on the very word of God through my hands.
Gifted hands.
My father said I was an angel; bore onto him to complete a passage left out when your words were written for your existence. That beauty as the world could conceptualise it, is distorted. He would tell me there is so, much, more, than this…
As a child, I had no concept of the world as you know it. I was not sick and poisoned with lies and filth of the world that draws into your blood so you can believe you do good, you can believe a blind eye is not evil; turn your head away, your minds away. You are handcuffed to the belief that your existence hinges on your own actions, not your lack thereof. As a child even, I could see the world for all it is, because I was not birthed as you were birthed.
I was gifted.
He taught me to pity; an entire lifetimes spent begging, rolling around in the muck only to cry and press and plead when given the chance to be more. Taking and taking until it was your turn to give, to become part of the beautification of this world.. I lost count, though I tried, I could not count on my fingers and toes the amount of them, no more than animals, who tried to fight the sacrifice. But good work does not come without sacrifice.
My father said I was an artist; and he was my greatest piece.
She wanted to feel the sun; she was so tired of the rain.
And so she did.
With the blade on a butterfly
I'll make a hole in you
I will kiss it and stick my tongue in it
Hard enough for you
To feel it in your stomach
I'll fist it with knuckles full of rings
Give you back the love you said was mine
So don't cry, don't worry
You're supposed to bleed the first time
Have you ever considered what the rain can do, once it seeps beneath your skin and becomes a part of you. What is its purpose to lie there, in wait; a part of your blood, your breath, sucked around your body on your own betraying nervous system. Those cells, treacherous cells, carrying a part of the world within you; did you ever consider what it will do, when the rain stops, when the heaven can spare not a single more drop.
She had been listening to that same sound for hours; it was enough to drive her insane. It was so repetitive and yet, it had no rhythm, it did not repeat. And so, she had tried to count it, tried to hear the beat; more times than she could count - and well - there wasn’t one you see. And she would know.
She should know.
She had been listening to that same sound for hours; like the beating of rain drops on an old tin roof. It pounded, it throbbed, it thrust itself upon her psyche, perhaps the sound wasn’t there anymore at all. Perhaps it had stopped hours ago but still she heard it, still it ravaged her mind, shook her limbs.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
She had been listening to that same sound for hours; pressed close to the floorboards, the stench of wet and rot in her nose seemed almost all too familiar and she had welcomed it. The familiarity of that touch, damp and dank, it reminded her of all she had belonged to before tonight. It kept her there, beneath that bed, where the light did not touch; where the sound could find her.
She had been listening.
Listening to that same sound for hours.
So when it began to draw closer to her hiding place, I suppose it was only natural she hadn’t noticed. Can you imagine how deep into your brain that sound would seep, it would feel as though it had become a part of you, I would suppose. It would beat through you, uneven and unsteady until you weren’t listening at all really; it is a part of you now, you breathe it in, you cannot hear anything but it. So who could blame her really, not to notice the change in pace; not to tell as the sound grew closer, louder… Not just a thud anymore at all.
Thud.
Thud.
Scrape.
That sound, the sharp, unexpected sound drew her out of the dank and the stench. Obtrusive, like a scream pressed directly to her eardrum, even in her absent state she could not help but hear it; could not help but to be drawn out from the place she knew to be safe. Skin sticking to skin; sweat.. profuse. She hadn’t noticed she was sweating, tucked away there beneath the rickety old frame of a bed in a house she didn’t know. But the smell.
That smell seemed all too familiar and she welcomed it, even as the scraping became longer, was that scraping? She couldn’t remember what scraping sounded like anymore, she wasn’t sure - you see - it had been so long since she had heard anything but that long, drawn out thudding, it had been so long since she had felt the light on her skin. It felt as though even the artificial production the light, bare bulb, swinging above that bed. The bed, in the house she didn’t know; was burning into her very flesh. She should draw back, return to her place beneath that frame, the smell…
She already missed the smell.
And it burned; that light that bore down to give shadows to the room; it burned against milky white flesh that had never seen the sun - she could not describe the sun should you ask her to - but she could paint a sunset so beautiful you would never believe her truth… As the thought crossed her mind, she looked for the widow, perhaps now she would see the sun, perhaps it would burn less than the light that bore down now, the light that let the shadows into the room; she didn’t like the shadows, but she was not afraid.
Big girls don’t cry.
That’s what they tell little girls who want to be grown, but that isn’t true; we all cry but big girls, big girls do not know fear; big girls grow from little girls pressed to floorboard beneath rickety bed frames in houses they do not know. Big girls feel tears drip down their cheeks like rolling fat telltales but they do not fear; they know that there are no ghost stories that can compete; there is nothing that can compete. She didn’t like the shadows.
But she was not afraid.
Feet, scuffling across the floorboards; bare feet that dragged toes through tiny splinters. Tiny fractures of wood, rising up as though to escape what they were contained within, pulled at her feet; tore at her toes, diving into the flesh but she did not notice; did not flinch, skirting around the edges to avoid the shadows who waited; they held their breath and the waited, just one slip, one touch… She would not touch the shadows. Bare feet, tracing across the wooden floor, somehow soft beneath her feet, weak and old from the rain that poured into your insides.
Trickling.
Dripping.
Thudding.
That sound, again; she had forgotten about the sound; it was like a lure. Somewhere within her she could feel the pull of that sound, it was almost time. Her time, she was supposed to wait there, beneath that bed - the bed in the house of which she did not know the name - for her turn, her call. She had forgotten it though; she had been listening for hours now, that same sound, like a record on repeat. She thought that maybe once, the sounds had not been the same sound at all, rising and falling, tempo, beat, pitch, ever changing. But now they were all just a sound, one sound, two sounds, they meant nothing and yet… She followed the sound, what was that sound?
A scrape.
Shadows waited at the door; she could feel their presence behind the painted little frame that marked her exit. Pink and white, the paint seemed to fall away as her fingers touched at it, curling beneath those fingers that stroked the wood and it all fell away; that happened sometimes, when she touched it, things would fall away - a marvel, a gift..
A curse.
She could fix the door, if she knew where she had left her paintbrush… The bed, she suspected it laid there in the bed, with crumpled sheets and one single pillow, lumpy and sad it sat in the middle of that bed. Her paintbrush, she suspected, lived there with the pillow, she would clutch to it, but not today - the shadows curved closer to the bed, flooding the room; she would not drown here, they would not touch, not once.. She knew that sound. That scrape that lie beyond the door.
But she would need her paintbrush.
My father told me I was an painter; the things I could do with hands and a paintbrush you see; they are unmatched by any other. He would tell me I was created by the hands of god himself to do the work he saw for the world.
As a child, I was told I was created, by his prayer; that I was not born. I was not birthed, but manifested through his greatness, that it was his vision that gave me life. I had not existed before him, just an existence without a name, there was no Brodie, no art, there was no extension of himself to send to the world and without it, there would be no beauty in this world, not as it was intended, not as it could be.
He taught me to paint; agonizing hours spent dipping and dipping that brush until the well would run dry, until we would need another, and another, I lost count, counting higher than a girl could count, the wells we ran dry so that I could learn to paint as he had intended, so I could complete the work as he envisioned, so that I may pass on the very word of God through my hands.
Gifted hands.
My father said I was an angel; bore onto him to complete a passage left out when your words were written for your existence. That beauty as the world could conceptualise it, is distorted. He would tell me there is so, much, more, than this…
As a child, I had no concept of the world as you know it. I was not sick and poisoned with lies and filth of the world that draws into your blood so you can believe you do good, you can believe a blind eye is not evil; turn your head away, your minds away. You are handcuffed to the belief that your existence hinges on your own actions, not your lack thereof. As a child even, I could see the world for all it is, because I was not birthed as you were birthed.
I was gifted.
He taught me to pity; an entire lifetimes spent begging, rolling around in the muck only to cry and press and plead when given the chance to be more. Taking and taking until it was your turn to give, to become part of the beautification of this world.. I lost count, though I tried, I could not count on my fingers and toes the amount of them, no more than animals, who tried to fight the sacrifice. But good work does not come without sacrifice.
My father said I was an artist; and he was my greatest piece.
She wanted to feel the sun; she was so tired of the rain.
And so she did.
With the blade on a butterfly
I'll make a hole in you
I will kiss it and stick my tongue in it
Hard enough for you
To feel it in your stomach
I'll fist it with knuckles full of rings
Give you back the love you said was mine
So don't cry, don't worry
You're supposed to bleed the first time