(no subject)
I find myself upon a precipice, toeing the line, looking over the edge into the deep darkness below. And I have glimpsed, through my own eyes, the view from the bottom looking up. So deep is that insurmountable chasm that, with tilted neck, 90 degrees, the world is a distant white speck in an encompassing sea of black. All around is dark, and in its own way, it is comforting and tantalizing.
So, with curious mind and widened eyes, I toe closer toward the edge, dirt crumbling at my feet, pushing the envelope. With precarious balance I begin to taunt the mighty ravine, obstinate laughter reverberating across the barren, jagged partitions. The trees begin to roar, coerced by the enraged wind, streaming through the greenery, creating in its anger the myriad sounds of affronted vehemence, a finger singing amongst the rings of water glasses.
And the earth herself takes up the cry of her moaning compatriot. She begins to seize. Beneath my feet the ravine opens its craggy mouth and I descend into the its voracious depths, tumbling like Alice down a rabbit hole.
Time is a memory: fleeting, melting, disintegrating.
At the point where on both sides of my head, white and black are equal, someone's hand (a hand vaguely familiar yet altogether distant) latches onto an olive tree, the savior uvula, placed at an impossibly horizontal angle to the chasm's vertical walls, the x to the y.
I hang there for ages, marooned upon an island of bark, stranded in a suspended animation. With stretching limbs and bloody fingers, I can feel someone's nails take hold into the gnarly bark and before my eyes the fruit turns green to black.
All there is is the sprawling beauty of the grey leaves and the bitter crop. Anchored between darkness and light, there is only beauty, and I shall hang upon its benevolent apparition eternally. It is all I will ever have, and it supplies all I shall ever need.
So, with curious mind and widened eyes, I toe closer toward the edge, dirt crumbling at my feet, pushing the envelope. With precarious balance I begin to taunt the mighty ravine, obstinate laughter reverberating across the barren, jagged partitions. The trees begin to roar, coerced by the enraged wind, streaming through the greenery, creating in its anger the myriad sounds of affronted vehemence, a finger singing amongst the rings of water glasses.
And the earth herself takes up the cry of her moaning compatriot. She begins to seize. Beneath my feet the ravine opens its craggy mouth and I descend into the its voracious depths, tumbling like Alice down a rabbit hole.
Time is a memory: fleeting, melting, disintegrating.
At the point where on both sides of my head, white and black are equal, someone's hand (a hand vaguely familiar yet altogether distant) latches onto an olive tree, the savior uvula, placed at an impossibly horizontal angle to the chasm's vertical walls, the x to the y.
I hang there for ages, marooned upon an island of bark, stranded in a suspended animation. With stretching limbs and bloody fingers, I can feel someone's nails take hold into the gnarly bark and before my eyes the fruit turns green to black.
All there is is the sprawling beauty of the grey leaves and the bitter crop. Anchored between darkness and light, there is only beauty, and I shall hang upon its benevolent apparition eternally. It is all I will ever have, and it supplies all I shall ever need.