{ 012 - Broadcast Mind }
You have heard of warmth emanating, radiating, but this is the first time you have witnessed it bleed.
But how can warmth bleed? It is simple, really. Warmth bleeds in the same way that blood does. It oozes from apertures in bodies of mass. From gashes in the flesh, fissures in the earth, and so on. It bleeds outward. But she is different. She bends the rules of the cosmos. Like a black hole things bleed into her. Like the sun she bleeds outward too.
She is a heavenly body, red hot and molten gold behind you, setting the world on fire. Your flesh tingles when you are near her, when she touches you. It feels like one thousand tiny insects crawling between your bones, crawling everywhere inside of you. She has her own gravitational pull; it is like one hundred knives penetrating your skin simultaneously, twisting, hooking, and then turning you inside out, splitting you at the seams and pulling you apart from every direction at once.
It feels good and you like it, the feeling of coming undone. You never thought that you could, that you would, but you do.
She lights your way and paints the world in ruby red. You walk upon a path she has constructed solely for you out of eyeless skulls instead of cobblestones. The echo of your boots on hollow craniums is music to your ears, but wait-
Wait!
You hear a different music in the distance . . .
Now goes the sun above the trees-rise
Now comes the moon, and sun sinks below
Now comes the tide to break on the shore
Now comes the stars that command the night skies
Amidst the roar of the flames consuming the city around you, licking up the walls of buildings toward the sky, turning to ash and cinder the remains you tread upon, you hear that familiar song. It echoes from within you, and yet emerges from the shadows. It comes to you from the depths of a cold and dark hell where you are powerless-Dismas.
You are so attuned to the melody that you do not realize when you take the first step into that bottomless darkness. The light soon fades and the warmth with it.
Now goes the sun . . .
The black hole that you are leaving behind strips everything away and leaves you bare, exposed to the shadows.
. . . and the sun sinks below
As you descend, you wonder if this new lightless path will continue on forever. You cannot see your way, and although you reach out to either side to place your hand against the walls, you feel nothing. It is as though the swell of undercity, its cool tide, has completely enveloped you and numbed you. It is as though you are being carried by it deeper and deeper into nothingness-otherness.
. . . to break on the shore
And it is the easiest and most unsettling state of being you can ever remember having encountered.
It seems to last for an eternity, but a trickle of light from below catches your eye, interrupts the obscurity. No, it is not a trickle of light, but a reflection of it. It is from beady eyes that watch you, and as you approach the source you become aware of its nature, of what it is.
A chicken.
It clucks, a sound of objection.
Something within you explodes, returns you to physical existence; hatred and loathing so intense it is capable of lighting the dark passageway ahead.
Now comes the . . .
In turn it illuminates her. Or is she the moon and stars that illuminates this night, that holds at bay the judgmental clucks of the bird roosting at your ankles?
There is nothing at all uncanny about her. Nothing that suggests she should be capable of the spell she has cast upon you. Nevertheless, you are drawn in her direction, past the fowl that stares at you suspiciously. You idly debate killing it, but her song quells your murderous urges before they can culminate.
She is an oddity in that subterranean world. You wonder how it is she can wield such a power over you when powers themselves don’t exist here. How is it her hair can remind you of the winter sun that hung over Alfonse? How is it the way her armor shines pristinely can remind you so absolutely of the unblemished fields of fresh fallen snow and ice-covered cliffs you once frequented? She is tiny, inconsequential, the very thing you have risen above, but you can think of nothing you want to do more than experience her-everything that she is or ever will become.
Her frosty eyes pierce you, and it is a deeper penetration than you have ever felt before.
. . . stars that command the night skies
She beckons to you, and you go to her. And you realize when your hands clasp, fingers interlocking, and you join her in a tangled and invigoratingly cool mess on the ground-you are home.
But how can warmth bleed? It is simple, really. Warmth bleeds in the same way that blood does. It oozes from apertures in bodies of mass. From gashes in the flesh, fissures in the earth, and so on. It bleeds outward. But she is different. She bends the rules of the cosmos. Like a black hole things bleed into her. Like the sun she bleeds outward too.
She is a heavenly body, red hot and molten gold behind you, setting the world on fire. Your flesh tingles when you are near her, when she touches you. It feels like one thousand tiny insects crawling between your bones, crawling everywhere inside of you. She has her own gravitational pull; it is like one hundred knives penetrating your skin simultaneously, twisting, hooking, and then turning you inside out, splitting you at the seams and pulling you apart from every direction at once.
It feels good and you like it, the feeling of coming undone. You never thought that you could, that you would, but you do.
She lights your way and paints the world in ruby red. You walk upon a path she has constructed solely for you out of eyeless skulls instead of cobblestones. The echo of your boots on hollow craniums is music to your ears, but wait-
Wait!
You hear a different music in the distance . . .
Now goes the sun above the trees-rise
Now comes the moon, and sun sinks below
Now comes the tide to break on the shore
Now comes the stars that command the night skies
Amidst the roar of the flames consuming the city around you, licking up the walls of buildings toward the sky, turning to ash and cinder the remains you tread upon, you hear that familiar song. It echoes from within you, and yet emerges from the shadows. It comes to you from the depths of a cold and dark hell where you are powerless-Dismas.
You are so attuned to the melody that you do not realize when you take the first step into that bottomless darkness. The light soon fades and the warmth with it.
Now goes the sun . . .
The black hole that you are leaving behind strips everything away and leaves you bare, exposed to the shadows.
. . . and the sun sinks below
As you descend, you wonder if this new lightless path will continue on forever. You cannot see your way, and although you reach out to either side to place your hand against the walls, you feel nothing. It is as though the swell of undercity, its cool tide, has completely enveloped you and numbed you. It is as though you are being carried by it deeper and deeper into nothingness-otherness.
. . . to break on the shore
And it is the easiest and most unsettling state of being you can ever remember having encountered.
It seems to last for an eternity, but a trickle of light from below catches your eye, interrupts the obscurity. No, it is not a trickle of light, but a reflection of it. It is from beady eyes that watch you, and as you approach the source you become aware of its nature, of what it is.
A chicken.
It clucks, a sound of objection.
Something within you explodes, returns you to physical existence; hatred and loathing so intense it is capable of lighting the dark passageway ahead.
Now comes the . . .
In turn it illuminates her. Or is she the moon and stars that illuminates this night, that holds at bay the judgmental clucks of the bird roosting at your ankles?
There is nothing at all uncanny about her. Nothing that suggests she should be capable of the spell she has cast upon you. Nevertheless, you are drawn in her direction, past the fowl that stares at you suspiciously. You idly debate killing it, but her song quells your murderous urges before they can culminate.
She is an oddity in that subterranean world. You wonder how it is she can wield such a power over you when powers themselves don’t exist here. How is it her hair can remind you of the winter sun that hung over Alfonse? How is it the way her armor shines pristinely can remind you so absolutely of the unblemished fields of fresh fallen snow and ice-covered cliffs you once frequented? She is tiny, inconsequential, the very thing you have risen above, but you can think of nothing you want to do more than experience her-everything that she is or ever will become.
Her frosty eyes pierce you, and it is a deeper penetration than you have ever felt before.
. . . stars that command the night skies
She beckons to you, and you go to her. And you realize when your hands clasp, fingers interlocking, and you join her in a tangled and invigoratingly cool mess on the ground-you are home.