The Void, On Fire

I think the biggest lie you've ever told me is that I'm similar to you in some way. This was so sinister that words fail me when I attempt to measure it. It is the silent murder at the base of all of this. Fitting, now that we stand at what I'd like to imagine, hope and force to be the middle of this journey. Fitting, that we should touch base with the inherent crime that drives me, fuel for the dreaded engine, ropes for the endless machine. It was a simple gesture, left to right, that slit my throat, urging the blood to flow, to bite, to change everything. I expected you to cup your hands and soak deeply of my life-blood. That would have been acceptable at that point, a natural step once we have accepted that you killed me. But no. You stepped away, your face askew in fascination, considering the crimson-shed torrent of myself. Why? How? None of these came to your mind. Yes, I presume to know you. It's all there, etched into the knife you used, the only mark I will leave on this world.

I faced death and longed for the nod, the look of approval from the only thing left to me. Nights I spent awake, staring, feeling the blood slowly pumping over my chest, hands and blanket. I waited for the ceiling to collapse, for the fan to stop, for the windows to shatter, for my mind to let go. Surviving was not an option, never once crossing my animal mind. But I lived. How, is unclear. You know that pain when you smash your knee against a corner in just that way, that numbing throb that seems to disappear but echoes through the rest of your day, slowly undulating in the back of your mind, coloring all your encounters? Like so. Like so I rose from my bed each morning, surveying the ellipse of the world with echoing eyes, drinking the meaningless buzzing sound of existence with punctured ears.

Drown. Drown was all I could think, all I could command myself. But like a bloated body, filled with involuntary gases which are the only remains of a shattered physique, I would not sink. Forced, uncontrolled, mindless, my own sense of self would stay afloat. How I wished for it to drown but all that was possible was to keep floating. And I float still. Afloat in this endless void, I release a crimson line into the stillness. A child sometimes cries for no reason but to wake his parent, to draw attention, to be held because he is too ashamed to simply ask for a hug. So am I, ashamed to wake you for an embrace. And so, only a thin line of crimson, afloat in this ending void, screams out in silence. Ha, an oxymoron. Useless devices held in flux by our own abilities to be gray. How fitting.

In any case, I have forced this to be the centre of our journey. With the force of my own despair, used as an antique wedge to a bole or bark, I have driven a milestone into the ground. From here, I hope to start climbing. Slowly reaching for the crimson rope, I shutter out the pain that grips my hand as it grips the cord. I open my eyes and stare deep into the void around me, discerning the shaky pattern that grips them in an ever effervescent dance of subtlety. And I swear. I swear deep and true, dredging the bottoms of my tar-soul, finding the willbediamonds and gripping them fierce. And I attach the cord back, feeding it into my legs, my back, my neck. A loop. A loop of blood. I cup my hands beneath my bleeding throat and drink deep of my own crimson fluid. And so, the murder becomes propulsion.

Here we go.

I set the void on fire.

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