Throbbing subsides. Shape returns. If there had been discoloration, it did not show. If there was about to be some, it wasn't heralded. No crater had formed. Not even the tiniest crack or fissure. Normalcy had been restored. It was over.
But the lava had been denied an outlet. It was rising. Rising and descending. To the left and to the right. Moving along the bloodstream. To meet an eventual release. A suitable climax. The pyroclastic flow would come. A darkness creeps inside. His shadow steps out to stand beside him.
Sound. It would come with longitudinal waves in the air around him; the pattern of specific regions of compressions and rarefactions. Whether it would be the sharp twang of a taut string, or the smooth sliver of a butcher's knife, or the dull smack of meat being thrown onto his table. He did not know. Not yet.
Bubbles rise through liquid gold as green leaves burn and dissolve in smoke. Burn and rise. Rise and burn. Mingle with the lava inside.Unholy mixture to which he now abandons his body and mind. Blood and ashes. Spit and dirt. Unseemly spectacle of torrid visions. An act of love, an instrument of torture. The mind is the greatest. Doer of evil or feather of a fairy. To hurt more than her words ever could. Brown fumes encircle his thoughts. Coiling serpents. Bared venom. Fangs dig deep as the lava boils over.
There is no one in his tree. He crouches on a lonely branch, pebbles in hand, hurling them at passers-by, biting them till his gums bleed. To come near would be to share. To touch and see and feel what is his and his alone. He was saving himself from their apathy, them from his darkness.
The cork is still in place. Unmoved and untouched, its necessity hardly evident. The bottle, a picture of serenity from the outside. Living a lie that was fast becoming his reality. Dreaming till he has forgotten that he is asleep. Of golden slumbers and silver hammers.
But the lava had been denied an outlet. It was rising. Rising and descending. To the left and to the right. Moving along the bloodstream. To meet an eventual release. A suitable climax. The pyroclastic flow would come. A darkness creeps inside. His shadow steps out to stand beside him.
Sound. It would come with longitudinal waves in the air around him; the pattern of specific regions of compressions and rarefactions. Whether it would be the sharp twang of a taut string, or the smooth sliver of a butcher's knife, or the dull smack of meat being thrown onto his table. He did not know. Not yet.
Bubbles rise through liquid gold as green leaves burn and dissolve in smoke. Burn and rise. Rise and burn. Mingle with the lava inside.Unholy mixture to which he now abandons his body and mind. Blood and ashes. Spit and dirt. Unseemly spectacle of torrid visions. An act of love, an instrument of torture. The mind is the greatest. Doer of evil or feather of a fairy. To hurt more than her words ever could. Brown fumes encircle his thoughts. Coiling serpents. Bared venom. Fangs dig deep as the lava boils over.
There is no one in his tree. He crouches on a lonely branch, pebbles in hand, hurling them at passers-by, biting them till his gums bleed. To come near would be to share. To touch and see and feel what is his and his alone. He was saving himself from their apathy, them from his darkness.
The cork is still in place. Unmoved and untouched, its necessity hardly evident. The bottle, a picture of serenity from the outside. Living a lie that was fast becoming his reality. Dreaming till he has forgotten that he is asleep. Of golden slumbers and silver hammers.
brilliant!
ReplyDeleteThanks Aman
ReplyDeletenice sir
ReplyDeleteThanks Dishant. Not many people read this blog of mine you know.
ReplyDeleteInteresting thoughts....
ReplyDelete