(no subject)
Ten thousand paper cranes.
One wish.
I stand in the middle of a sea of white, surrounded by those ten thousand birds, who watch me with the close eyes of those who are suspicious.
They have every right to be suspicious, because I'm nothing that I seem. Where I seem solid, I am fluid; where I seem light, I am dark. I am every quiet hate and every secret jealousy and every hidden tear that anyone ever felt, harbored, or cried.
I am Sorrow, and I grieve.
And then the paper cranes spread their wings, the whisper of paper and secrets and murmured conversations--
There is something I have to say there is someone I have to see there is somewhere I have to be and there is nothingness all around
--preparing for flight or for the leap and eventual fall because really are they so different?
Flying is just falling in slow motion.
I am Freedom and I am shackled.
The rise of the air, my hair fluttering in the unnatural breezing whispers. Ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand cranes, circling me like vultures in disguise, every wingtip first a fingerbrush, then insistant, until my naked skin is not pink but the brilliant red of the blood I shed. Ten million papercuts, into ten million paper scars, criss-crossing my body like a map to my deepest secrets, hidden in the curve of my leg, under my breasts, across my belly-- a path of eventual redemption.
I am Faith and I am lost.
One wish.
I stand in the middle of a sea of white, surrounded by those ten thousand birds, who watch me with the close eyes of those who are suspicious.
They have every right to be suspicious, because I'm nothing that I seem. Where I seem solid, I am fluid; where I seem light, I am dark. I am every quiet hate and every secret jealousy and every hidden tear that anyone ever felt, harbored, or cried.
I am Sorrow, and I grieve.
And then the paper cranes spread their wings, the whisper of paper and secrets and murmured conversations--
There is something I have to say there is someone I have to see there is somewhere I have to be and there is nothingness all around
--preparing for flight or for the leap and eventual fall because really are they so different?
Flying is just falling in slow motion.
I am Freedom and I am shackled.
The rise of the air, my hair fluttering in the unnatural breezing whispers. Ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand cranes, circling me like vultures in disguise, every wingtip first a fingerbrush, then insistant, until my naked skin is not pink but the brilliant red of the blood I shed. Ten million papercuts, into ten million paper scars, criss-crossing my body like a map to my deepest secrets, hidden in the curve of my leg, under my breasts, across my belly-- a path of eventual redemption.
I am Faith and I am lost.