31 Ianuarie 1899

       It had been three days since Emilian had spotted from outside the hut in the cold, bare winter's light of dawn, the distant shape of a body floating down the twisted threads of the Carpathians. It had been three days since he had chased it agaze from above, down the side of the hill and through the thin woods, until it rested aside the trunk of a fallen tree behind heavy-flowing waters.

       He began in a slight walk, the sight before him not quite registering. But as a strange, hidden curiosity began to fester, within moments he was frantically racing the body, shaking at the prospect of it falling out of view. Sprinkles of rain began to gently whisper, as a muffled roll of thunder foreshadowed calamity. As this brought him to a sudden remembrance of the circumstances, he took off up the hill to the hut, in which he found his mother very forcefully making her way through a pile of cast iron, blackened hands scrubbing with a dark tension that Emilian did not understand. His collapsing at the threshold and fast, heavy breaths caught her attention immediately. She halted completely and slowly raised her sunken eyes to meet his. It seemed some part of her already knew, for she fled the kitchen within seconds and followed her son wordlessly and unhesitantly to the edge of the hill.

       It had been three days since his mother had staggered down upon the dead, yellow grass, through the quiet shuffle of the rain. Dark eyes wide with the most horrid of possibilities, dry, cracked hands trembling in response, desperately she wrung the grease-soaked washcloth. Her breath left her lungs as she stared in quiet shock at the sight before her, until falling into a very small, pitiful heap of sorrow and torment.

       It seemed a veil had been thrown over the range, as all before them became quickly dimmer, grayer. The low exhale of the mountain. For a few moments, a furious clap of thunder from that sudden veil easily drowned out the sobs. The noise shook the teeth of the others, and they had all come tumbling down from their fragile home in search of their mother. Emilian would leave their side to search in a nervous haste for their father, at a loss for the possibility of entertaining any other line of thought. He would find him dragging the horses into the barn, the goats into the caravans amidst the swiftly-approaching storm, peacefully unaware of the recent discovery.

       It had been three days since these events unfolded, but years would pass before the boy would finally piece them together in total comprehension.

     Now, three days after, he was still in no less of a smoky haze than the moment his eyes rested upon the swollen, disfigured corpse of his uncle. His mind flashed with memories of the strange array of dark gashes in the wool coat and the blue lips and the purple, venous eyelids. Three days and the memories were already fading, three days and they had already left him a deep scar.

       He threw the dream into the coals and let his head fall back against the trembling wooden walls. He was sick, though from what, the poor young boy did not know. His conscience sat uncomfortably between the older years of maturity and the younger years of ignorant bliss. Thin sheets of subtle confusion against a very meager supply of facts balanced out to nothing less than the torturous weight of subconscious knowledge. He knew no escape from this new sensation but sleep, and when he could not sleep, he had no choice but to listen.

Listen.

       Three days and the storm had not let up, so Emilian had not had to listen to the most dreadful sound of all. Silence. Silence in a peacefulness is serene and necessary and seeming as refreshing as cold water after a day in the heat. But silence on top of fear, isolation-- silence on top of silence-- that is a recipe for a hellish night.

     And Emilian would pass this night as he had the last two. Quiet, unmoving, folded inside a rough wool blanket between a cold, damp wall and the warm, dry furnace. Watchful of his sisters and brothers, pensive of his surroundings, yet empty. Finding comfort in the noise, filling his head with nothing but the noise. Thunder, lightning, wind, and rain. What else really was there? In the timeless oblivion of this darkened home, nothing.

                                                            ************

by the way. not dead. i'll be back as soon as i think of some prose worth sharing with you few but wonderful people. you all deserve more than a sloppy rendition of an impulsive idea, so it may be a while before i write again. anyway. please disregard the blatant obnoxiousness of this post. 

my thanks. 

o green, humble grass

how dare it go on growing

at the dawn of every spring

past the coldness of my death?

o bright, hopeful sun

how dare it go on rising

at every dark, careful morning

past the bleakness of my death?

o deep, chaotic seas

how dare they keep on churning 

at every soft breath of wind

past the helplessness of my death?

o vast heavy earth

how dare you let us die

of every subtle touch and ache

as ever you'll live on? 

This deep, dark expanse is silent still, and still we rest inside it. There is nothing, rather than something. We think, there must be something. Suddenly we are aware of

swirling lightness in the darkness. We begin to dream of others. We begin to dream of identity. Who are we? What a strange, unfamiliar sense accompanies that strange,

strange wonder.

Suddenly they are there. Bright, vast, loud. Round, powerful, alive. We feel them, and though there is darkness still, we know what brightness is there. A splendid, beautiful fear overcomes us.

We will be called stars.

Suddenly, we are all one. Our minds combined, we know the same. We imagine smaller others. Then, with strength and mind, it is so. They vary in size and matter. They will be called planets. On some, life will exist.

Life.

Something they call green, and something they call breath. The planets will slip out of our power, and will be supported by the life which exists there. There will be

something called pain, and life forms will create another pain called love. They will worship an idea they will call religion. This idea will lead to more pain, hate, and

something called war. War. We will not fathom it.

The lifes on these little bits of star will make known to us something called fascination, and we will discover that humans are both the most senseless and intellectual of these. But what they humans call animals will hold a simplicity more fascinating still, for humans will never see that they are simply animals just as the rest.

But for a moment we will turn our minds from these strange little planets, and to the vastness of us. We will look beyond ourselves, and for the first time, we will know

ignorance. We will long for something in the darkness, and it will not materialize. For the first time, we will feel small, as the humans will say, when they gaze upon us. We will wonder.

Wonder.

Of what lies beyond us. We will suddenly no longer be above the humans. We will wonder who created we stars, as we created the planets, and as the planets created the humans. We will ask, but we will go unanswered. And with a loud clash of light and fire and sudden weightlessness, our minds will obliviate to the darkness surrounding.

This will be called death. 

 I thought I knew it well, you see

Until that dreadful day

I gazed into your violent eyes

Felt love immortally

I'd always loved the damaged ones

The evil, dark and dead

I wished to be a weakness, yes

To kill and bleed and shed

All of this I never knew

Until I sat and thought--

God, how mad I am for they

Who dream of life, for naught

Of course, these loves I speak of here

Do not, for truth, exist

'twas years, ages, lives ago

Were writ those manuscripts

Your steps are long since hid by ever-changing season

By wind-tossed dust, remains of that which once was life

From cold-soaked grounds of spring's eve

And green jewels, summer-grown anew,

Risen above all once tread on

Embraced in nature's death-sleep defense

Still sadly I fall heavy to these grounds

In so routine tears of hopelessness

Longing to touch the earth which once knew

The sound of your wandering shoes

If too late to behold and hear, in pleas

To breathe in the same air to which

You lifted your voice and breaths, ever-gone

I am quite young at fifteen. But I think I have existed for much, much longer than

that. And when I think of my childhood, it is like looking through a long-uncleaned window to a world from three centuries ago. It is blurry, and heartbreaking, and

painful, but green. There is no sound-- not even music-- how is there no music! I, whose tendons are stretched from the strings of a Rosewood music box-- I, whose heart pumps the bloods of a symphony-- I, whose bones are built by the hands who pound and kiss ivory keys--- seemingly had no clue of whose flesh I was. As I gaze in head ache, I wonder if once were I not an opera house.

Most people see darkness when they shut their eyes. If only I could know what that is like. It takes me no less than three and a half hours of lying in pitch-black to

fall asleep at night. This is because I can not see darkness. I never have. My eyes birth gods and demons and artists to the absence of light. Worlds become and collapse

from my bedroom ceiling. Sometimes I am so sick of this that I keep awake for days at a time, hoping to simply lie my head down and let my mind silently disappear, if only for a moment or two.

It never works.

In fact, it seems to anger that part of me with which I so often conflict. It draws its sword and challenges a duel, though never do I know for what. So as we battle, I can only watch. It happens the same way every time. My senses beg me for oblivion, in the heaviest exhaustion. And so it is their blood that paints the floor. Despite their armored chests and stomachs, they always die together--- hand in hand, mouth to mouth. And as rays of sun begin to shine through the blinds, their very last shaky breath finally beckons sleep to me.

I am the mother, the father, the child

I am the peace, the tension, the bile.

I am the earth you inhabit, consume

I am the air you inhale and pollute.

I am the water you poisoned then drank.

I am the moon you close your eyes to, 

the sun to which you awake.

I am the blood and the heart and the veins

I am the numbness, the pleasure and pain.

I am your wounds that fester and plague

I am the kiss that sucks it away.