An urn of cherry blossom embers exhales spirals of ash that float slowly, malevolently, like smoke-tendril wraiths. A room made of angles, bamboo, rice-paper and cryptomeria swallows the colorless noise of seared fingertips and shallow breathing. The tatami mats absorb the scent of sweat and blood, incinerated flowers and charred flesh.
With unseeing eyes of motionless glass, I stare blankly into invisible vision skeins. The wound sears deeper than the charcoal-heated twin metal tines in my hand. Destroyed nerve endings are just a thing. A reminder. The crux of my focus is on my unassailable regret, that I try and scorch into absolution.
The prongs drink heavily from the exsiccation and incandescence. I try to slake an inhuman thirst of memory by drowning it with neutrality.
This is as it must be. Holding still for minutes, hours, days. With no expression, no retort.
Training myself to disconnect from the world. Dispassionately. Compassionate mercy. Dissociative stillness.
12:00 a.m. - 2014-04-30
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea