Horizons blackened by a slow, ruthless decay meet grey clouds of ash somewhere on the skyline.
I can't discern where one ends and the other begins, my eyes blurred by internal uncertainty.
When A is no longer A, how can I deduce where one reality stops and a fantasy begins?
I sit at ground zero, with clouds of cinders wrapping me in a gale's cloak. I sit on my heels, with my knees to the ground, and wear an amateurish mask of smears painted olive by negative space. Two horizontal slashes, like a pair of vertical rivets, are the punctuation marks made plain on the sentence of my emotionless countenance. I sit, and I listen to the roar of silence in the eye of an illusory ruin.
Every breath is a tiny agony. Drawing in great gasps of burning embers and floating charcoal. Each exhalation an exercise in control, intoning the sound of the universe with artificial stillness.
The tumbling, dancing spray of sparks reminds me of will'o'wisps I've never seen. A feels like a microcosm of the pulse of scalding warmth in my stomach;
the internal scarring of a coal swallowed whole.
12:34 a.m. - 2014-04-25
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