Butterflies - would have been for brigits_flame, had my internet not crashed AGAIN
Title: Butterflies
Genre: Introspective
Warnings: No.
Summary: She calls them her butterfly moods. They help her to dig deep.
A/N: This was written for the Week One topic at brigits_flame- 'Digging'. Unfortunately, due to a huge combination of factors, I didn't get anything written down until about five minutes before the deadline.
Then, don't you just know it, my internet went down. For three fucking hours. So that's me out, on the first month in ages that I actually had the time to compete.
In case you hadn't noticed, I'm just a teensy bit irritated.
------
She calls them her butterfly moods.
Sitting there, crosslegged, at the kitchen table, with a bowl of untouched cereal in front of her, she digs deep. She can never concentrate in a butterfly mood (butter, bitter, better), not on reading, thinking, eating. But show her a blank page, and she'll fill it in a moment, words and pictures flowing out of that deep hole that the butterflies have dug in the foundation of her mind.
She thinks in poetry, then - in poetry, in narrative, in song. She can't speak, not like she does normally. The words thicken into honey, become crypticisms worthy of an oracle. The mundane world sinks into the background, and she's left with the bare bones, the very foundations of her being. The butterflies of her mood flutter around her, in a broad wave of shifting colour, and she's left standing within herself, bare hands, bare heart, digging.
She remembers nothing. She thinks she does, but all she knows for sure is that the words she digs up are the best she's ever written, the lines she excavates from the depths of her subconscious fit together in something that, in her eyes at least, rivals Michelangelo. But like dry earth, the ideas slip through her fingers, quick as darkness.
She sits there in silence, and the butterfly moods are the only time she is ever still. Her friends and her family look at her with doubt in her eyes. They don't know. They don't understand.
She can't be disturbed. She's digging.
Her eyes stay wide, staring, rarely blinking, but in her mind, she's blinded by the sweat of her labours. Her hands fly across the keyboard as though they have a life of their own, shovelling letters and words and stories onto the page like scattered gold from some long-forgotten mine. Her pen scratches over the page like a shovel, digging out the forms from God alone knows where.
She knows where.
It is so clear to her. She stands there in the darkness of her own psyche, alive with excitement. The feeling fizzes into her fingertips and her head and her eyes, intoxicating, powerful, and the real world is left behind as she digs deeper.
She wishes she could find the key. The way to unlock these butterfly moods. They come upon her when she least expects them or welcomes them (can't focus on work, can't focus on talking, got to keep on digging) and she always welcomes them. But she wants more. The feeling of power is addictive, and she wants to dig deeper, think deeper, find more of these treasures.
She is digging into the very foundations of her mind, and she wants nothing more than to find what lies beneath. To peel back the last layer of thought and gaze on whatever waits beyond the conscious and the unconscious.
But even as she falls back against the wall, made idolent and useless by the butterflies that go on digging through her mind, she doesn't realise the fundamental of this.
When you dig too deep, the foundations themselves begin to crumble.
And when you dig yourself too deep, there is no way out again.
Genre: Introspective
Warnings: No.
Summary: She calls them her butterfly moods. They help her to dig deep.
A/N: This was written for the Week One topic at brigits_flame- 'Digging'. Unfortunately, due to a huge combination of factors, I didn't get anything written down until about five minutes before the deadline.
Then, don't you just know it, my internet went down. For three fucking hours. So that's me out, on the first month in ages that I actually had the time to compete.
In case you hadn't noticed, I'm just a teensy bit irritated.
------
She calls them her butterfly moods.
Sitting there, crosslegged, at the kitchen table, with a bowl of untouched cereal in front of her, she digs deep. She can never concentrate in a butterfly mood (butter, bitter, better), not on reading, thinking, eating. But show her a blank page, and she'll fill it in a moment, words and pictures flowing out of that deep hole that the butterflies have dug in the foundation of her mind.
She thinks in poetry, then - in poetry, in narrative, in song. She can't speak, not like she does normally. The words thicken into honey, become crypticisms worthy of an oracle. The mundane world sinks into the background, and she's left with the bare bones, the very foundations of her being. The butterflies of her mood flutter around her, in a broad wave of shifting colour, and she's left standing within herself, bare hands, bare heart, digging.
She remembers nothing. She thinks she does, but all she knows for sure is that the words she digs up are the best she's ever written, the lines she excavates from the depths of her subconscious fit together in something that, in her eyes at least, rivals Michelangelo. But like dry earth, the ideas slip through her fingers, quick as darkness.
She sits there in silence, and the butterfly moods are the only time she is ever still. Her friends and her family look at her with doubt in her eyes. They don't know. They don't understand.
She can't be disturbed. She's digging.
Her eyes stay wide, staring, rarely blinking, but in her mind, she's blinded by the sweat of her labours. Her hands fly across the keyboard as though they have a life of their own, shovelling letters and words and stories onto the page like scattered gold from some long-forgotten mine. Her pen scratches over the page like a shovel, digging out the forms from God alone knows where.
She knows where.
It is so clear to her. She stands there in the darkness of her own psyche, alive with excitement. The feeling fizzes into her fingertips and her head and her eyes, intoxicating, powerful, and the real world is left behind as she digs deeper.
She wishes she could find the key. The way to unlock these butterfly moods. They come upon her when she least expects them or welcomes them (can't focus on work, can't focus on talking, got to keep on digging) and she always welcomes them. But she wants more. The feeling of power is addictive, and she wants to dig deeper, think deeper, find more of these treasures.
She is digging into the very foundations of her mind, and she wants nothing more than to find what lies beneath. To peel back the last layer of thought and gaze on whatever waits beyond the conscious and the unconscious.
But even as she falls back against the wall, made idolent and useless by the butterflies that go on digging through her mind, she doesn't realise the fundamental of this.
When you dig too deep, the foundations themselves begin to crumble.
And when you dig yourself too deep, there is no way out again.