Post by נσкσмαтσ on Aug 2, 2017 10:57:18 GMT -5
Just bear with me, this is a crude attempt at writing surrealism.
Her days melted together into weeks, then weeks into months into years, each more similar to the last and each taking her further from herself. Every second becomes lost in the endless, spinning vortex of alcohol and poison (was there a distinction?) consumed under the pretense of celebration, or was it in mourning? She’s been pouring amber liquid into empty glasses for so long this is the lens through which she sees the world, she swirls the amber in her hand and the world turns on its head, a kaleidoscope of broken glass and teeth and bones. Screaming laughter and mindless violence greet her at every corner, nowhere is she safe from the amber glass and teeth and bones but she gives herself up to that abuse and thrusts her empty bottle to toast the gods who made her so. She breathes and wet drops collect around the edges of her glass, not amber but almost there. Crimson now, but almost there. Her breath, which has been taken from her by those who sought to drink from her but no!, she tells them, no! she is not amber she is not the Lethe that they seek but they laugh and they drink from her anyway she is glass. And when they have had their fill her years can no longer be broken up into days or weeks or months but she can feel where each part of her was left behind and she’s been pouring amber liquid into empty glasses for so long she can hardly tell which ones are broken. She sees the amber and she sees the glass and through that lens she sees the world at an odd angle and if she tries, she can see her reflection. She breathes and her breath is not quite amber but almost there, almost there. She leaves glass in her wake, the stems of wine glasses and handles of beer vessels, poisonous air and wet tears. She leaves amber in her wake, spilled with each step she takes and with each step it becomes a little less crimson and a little more amber and she can’t decide which she prefers. She walks but there is no destination and the road before her shakes so hard it threatens to open beneath her and it does in an instant the chasm opens and swallows her she does not scream she does not struggle she lets herself go she sleeps. She sleeps an endless sleep and imagines a new world not in a kaleidoscope of broken glass and fingers and screams that are amber but they are. The chasm breathes but she can’t she can’t see her amber breath for it is not there it’s stuck in her throat as she chokes on nothing and everything and when the chasm shudders, so does she.
