Ben thinks: if I close my eyes, the world will disappear.
The air glimmers and then thickens and then, almost unimaginably, fills with the varied contents of a man. Belyakov pours himself into being inside his skin;
now that's just solipsism, ben hawkins
his voice ceases to be his voice alone and it is like the very land, sea, air, the very dreamscape that proceeds from [but perhaps the right word is through] his mind, wraps itself around words and edges them onto his tongue;
"the universe stretches like a road long before an' long after, and i am a speck of dust on this dusty path"
reality contracts like the belly of a laughing man, and instead of sound it sprays colour over his vision
belyakov's voice slithers over his shoulder, into the inner curve of his ear, "the more you cling to this self, the weaker you are."
"whaddya mean?" ben's voice grows desperate. "belyakov, you just tell me, goddamit."
this;
ben
now you must listen
"our bodies are not what we are."
ben wakes, and belyakov remains; as solid as the day he died. he smiles, a trifle sadly and curls his fingers around ben's, "ah, ben. you are so young to be asked to shed your self."
"i don't-,"
understand. but the statement is unvoiced, pushed back down down in the back of his throat by the vision of the world exploding.
when he sees sophie, he understands what belyakov means; it is a moment of perfect clarity and he sees his faceless self morphing into a stream of humanity, tumbling through space from the dawn of time itself- and they pause, and they look at him
he looks right back at the past the present the continuity of himself that threatens to explode the confines of his skin and says, "i'm sorry."
he drops his knife, and her black eyes widen so slightly as she stabs him in the heart, a precise wound.
he can never quite get used to his blood being blue;
he feels rather than hears belyakov slit through reality, feels the pressure of his hand against his head, and he is grateful even though belyakov whispers, "oh ben hawkins. the self is nothing."
ben's reply covers belyakov with blood, an expulsion of colour and sound- "if people don't matter then what're we doin' this for?" he asks, and his eyes flick upwards even though he knows that sophie will not come.
Ben thinks: if I close my eyes, the world will disappear.
The air glimmers and then thickens and then, almost unimaginably, fills with the varied contents of a man. Belyakov pours himself into being inside his skin;
now that's just solipsism, ben hawkins
his voice ceases to be his voice alone and it is like the very land, sea, air, the very dreamscape that proceeds from [but perhaps the right word is through] his mind, wraps itself around words and edges them onto his tongue;
"the universe stretches like a road long before an' long after, and i am a speck of dust on this dusty path"
reality contracts like the belly of a laughing man, and instead of sound it sprays colour over his vision
belyakov's voice slithers over his shoulder, into the inner curve of his ear, "the more you cling to this self, the weaker you are."
"whaddya mean?" ben's voice grows desperate. "belyakov, you just tell me, goddamit."
this;
ben
now you must listen
"our bodies are not what we are."
ben wakes, and belyakov remains; as solid as the day he died. he smiles, a trifle sadly and curls his fingers around ben's, "ah, ben. you are so young to be asked to shed your self."
"i don't-,"
understand. but the statement is unvoiced, pushed back down down in the back of his throat by the vision of the world exploding.
when he sees sophie, he understands what belyakov means; it is a moment of perfect clarity and he sees his faceless self morphing into a stream of humanity, tumbling through space from the dawn of time itself- and they pause, and they look at him
he looks right back at the past the present the continuity of himself that threatens to explode the confines of his skin and says, "i'm sorry."
he drops his knife, and her black eyes widen so slightly as she stabs him in the heart, a precise wound.
he can never quite get used to his blood being blue;
he feels rather than hears belyakov slit through reality, feels the pressure of his hand against his head, and he is grateful even though belyakov whispers, "oh ben hawkins. the self is nothing."
ben's reply covers belyakov with blood, an expulsion of colour and sound- "if people don't matter then what're we doin' this for?" he asks, and his eyes flick upwards even though he knows that sophie will not come.
belaykov strokes his hair, and he is grateful;
behind his eyelids the world ends.
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I loved this. Damn I'm going to miss that show. :(
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