Fifth Element: The Song (Plavalaguna | K | 400w)
[ Plavalaguna | K | 400w | 2007-12-24 | Mirror ]
yuletide treat. Plavalaguna sings. Speaking is its own kind of song, and, to her, even the oxygen and nitrogen exchange has a rhythm, a pulse, a connection.
The Song
When she reaches her seventh solar, she opens her mouth, and she sings.
After that, she never stops.
*
It is not that she can’t speak-speaking is its own kind of song, and to her, even the oxygen and nitrogen exchange has a rhythm, a pulse, a connection.
But if she has her preference, she will sing her way through life. Whether it is words she bends to liquid highs and cratered, echoing lows, or just the clarity of her voice, the purity of her instrument, it doesn’t matter. As long as she is moving, participating in the exchange, becoming a part of the ebb and flow around her, she is happy.
*
The idea that off-worlders want to pay for her performances is one that baffles her. That they regard her birthright as a commodity to be bought is not a philosophy she understands, but she acquiesces nonetheless, because she has never thought to hide what she has to give.
*
The notes soar into the round domes of the room, filling the empty space, swelling and expanding in volume until she can feel every being in here with her. It is a sensation that no one she has met understands, a phenomenon that even off-world doctors have not been able to label or describe in their strange, dry terms.
In these moments of transcendence, she doesn’t need words for it. Just as the song does, the awareness grows within her, shines from underneath her skin, dances in the currents and streams of her physiology.
Every beat and pulse in the room becomes a part of her voice, layers and layers of existence combining into one jubilant expression, and even when she senses the ripples of her ending coming through the cadence, she does not stop. As long as she can know that the exchange will go on, she is content.
*
She can hear the undercurrent of fear and sadness in his vibrations. She touches his face, delivers her message. She would tell him not worry, tell him that all is at it should be, but air diffuses out of her with each subsequent pulse of time.
She feels a different crescendo call, one that rolls in sweet and silent intonation beneath blackness and void, one that summons her into its tapestry.
She smiles. The song-her song-as ever, does not end.
It simply finds a new form.
yuletide treat. Plavalaguna sings. Speaking is its own kind of song, and, to her, even the oxygen and nitrogen exchange has a rhythm, a pulse, a connection.
The Song
When she reaches her seventh solar, she opens her mouth, and she sings.
After that, she never stops.
*
It is not that she can’t speak-speaking is its own kind of song, and to her, even the oxygen and nitrogen exchange has a rhythm, a pulse, a connection.
But if she has her preference, she will sing her way through life. Whether it is words she bends to liquid highs and cratered, echoing lows, or just the clarity of her voice, the purity of her instrument, it doesn’t matter. As long as she is moving, participating in the exchange, becoming a part of the ebb and flow around her, she is happy.
*
The idea that off-worlders want to pay for her performances is one that baffles her. That they regard her birthright as a commodity to be bought is not a philosophy she understands, but she acquiesces nonetheless, because she has never thought to hide what she has to give.
*
The notes soar into the round domes of the room, filling the empty space, swelling and expanding in volume until she can feel every being in here with her. It is a sensation that no one she has met understands, a phenomenon that even off-world doctors have not been able to label or describe in their strange, dry terms.
In these moments of transcendence, she doesn’t need words for it. Just as the song does, the awareness grows within her, shines from underneath her skin, dances in the currents and streams of her physiology.
Every beat and pulse in the room becomes a part of her voice, layers and layers of existence combining into one jubilant expression, and even when she senses the ripples of her ending coming through the cadence, she does not stop. As long as she can know that the exchange will go on, she is content.
*
She can hear the undercurrent of fear and sadness in his vibrations. She touches his face, delivers her message. She would tell him not worry, tell him that all is at it should be, but air diffuses out of her with each subsequent pulse of time.
She feels a different crescendo call, one that rolls in sweet and silent intonation beneath blackness and void, one that summons her into its tapestry.
She smiles. The song-her song-as ever, does not end.
It simply finds a new form.