Speak long enough,
with just enough drawn out warmth to your words..
and anyone will believe you..
What then of the girl who doesn’t care to be believed? The girl who shelters her tongue, mirroring quietly the undetected closure cast aside and forgotten?
There is always one.
There is always that soul that watches in peaceful silence; noting, notating, negotiating in her own mind all the things that could have been but are less than desired by desire herself..
With every curve of a smile she doesn’t feel.
With every tilt of her head that she knows guides the seldom wrong into comfort; as if she cares. As if their words held her interest, when in truth, she is miles away in the tethered backdrop of her own creating.
She lies, still.
In every single tasteful breath that sighs a lilt of southern bliss, all too easily repeated in a melody of joy when it’s picked up; picked on..
In each and every rise and fall of pitch and tone. The moments when she plays upon the innocence expected of her, and the litany of misfortune that supposedly she is to wear around her in brace.
She lies very well, but to whom?
Is the purpose in the lie of the girl that prefers silence to the chattering of the meaningless?
Is it the calm in the control, that just in such a solitary moment, she can piece it all together.. She can grasp what eludes her, even in her own mind; so unknown?
Perhaps, it’s in the hope that she’ll be more than seen.
That she’ll be known.
Not for what comes out of her fingertips, but for what drips off of her tongue in the stammering chaos of misguided attempts to still her quivering words..
Till then, she is content.
I, am content.
..and when her silence was shattered, the splinters pierced the Abyss; lighting the embers with her madness..
Gather the tendrils as they dance through the shadows, and tangle them in repetition against your fist. Listen as the sweetest desolation plays as a symphony against the screams. Their melody sways beneath the whispers of a haunting smile, torn at the edges, and laced with the corsets of the pristine little souls bathed in ivory..
Pull them tighter..
Bind them to the rings against the Monster’s teeth..
Gracious door traced in ivy that swirls, lit by a shell with a dying flame still bracing itself against the hollows. Enter carefully, wistfully, as though your toes were tracing the sand in the storm brewing ahead and behind what can’t be held. What can’t be followed.
Shut the door behind you..
Flick the lock and mark the edges with secrets shed..
There’s a sheet where the girl with the stitched joy used to rest, lain in heaps, and folded at the center just so. Just at the ends where the folds are slit, and the curtains are drawn to keep the curious within. The answers hacked of assumptions are under the floorboards, and the ghosts of the present are boxed away with the Kay beneath the bed. Upon the bedpost. The knob against the ground where the roots are twisted and knarled to hold the dollhouse against the counter..
Marble never felt so smooth..
Trace the misconceptions till they are welcomed at the treasures keep..
Ecnelis met the binds with a smile, and in basking beneath the fallacies of anxiety; she was faced with her future.
She was faced with herself in the mirror of the Dollhouse.
Silence slipped from the constrictions of freedom, and from the ashes of sheer distinction rose who she’s always been.
When some men die it is as if you had lost your pen-knife, and were subject to perpetual inconvenience until you could get another. Other men’s going is like the vanishing of a great mountain from the landscape, and the outlook of life is changed forever. ~Phillips Brooks
There is pain that cuts through you so viciously, without mercy, that it leaves you in a state of perpetual bliss. Something vanishing, in which you [lie] upon the graciousness of your own misfortunes, and what is yours is shaken into dire states of desolation..
This is not that pain..
This pain is delicate. So delicate, in fact, that were it to be caressed with but the single breath of wing.. it would shatter. This pain is held in the silence of a calmness. This pain is isolated so well, that it dare not even quiver for the sake of forsaking nothing and everything in the depths of absolution. It is something to be tethered, cradled, coddled, and traced in the gentlest of heartbeats that sound off in unison beneath a courageously lacking shell. A facade built so well, and so quickly, that the tremors of folly beneath it wait in stillness for that all too familiar collapse to set the world in flames.
Live long enough, and you will run across people who alter and primp up the perspectives to which you’ve clutched so dearly. For some, this is a catastrophe! A dire misguidance which will tangle their little panties into a wad far too tight to be unbound by mere desire. For me, it’s something so deliciously enticing that it has spread a bated breath of scattered rays; the land otherwise quite dampened in shadows. So.. what does one do when they find themselves faced with a warmth that seems to splinter? A creation of glistening insecurity that slips beyond the damaging negotiations you’ve long had in good standing? Why, you build a suitable respite from the depths of your own illusions, of course!
In my case, you tear apart the anxieties for which you have become rather well known, and dust them off so that they hang with a little more agreement. You string them up, lacing them in little stitches with the darkest parts of fear, and allow them to pool down along the floor for an added affect of creation. You lay out the tender pieces of your silhouette, brush the dust from the corners where touches have been misled, spread a decadent little arrangement of scents and sights to twist the deviant mind frame into a hardship, and then you rest. Languidly stretching each and every way that is possible, to soak in the pieces of grace with which you know are yours; somehow.
This is my gentility of silence.
Not all days are as black as [my] Wonderland may have you think.
When there is nothing holding you in place, except for your own inability to remove the pins from the wall, that.. is fear. That is a silence that is all encompassing, and yet, it has a distinctive ability to cover [my] Earth in its validity. It is a warped sensation. From the edge of that pretty little visionary line, you can see the silhouettes so poised in preparation to be of some use; dismissively. Yes? No. Your surrounding endeavor is one riddled with trepidation, and it stands to reason, that beyond the delicately lain tendrils of your own misdoings is some semblance of aversion. To what, being the answer that bares ground in no tangible question. Everything is as it seems, and nothing truly falls within the realm of being unfounded; so… twist the anything, and mark it with the grievances of nonsensical confinement. That should do it..
If the illusion is to be held, make it hideous. Pretty lies slip from the tongue with fervency, but [oh!] the true addictions are beneath in the creative callousness that withers away the bone with crude verbiage. If the illusion is to be held.. twist it, mock it, take stock in it and truly let it grow into something so ravaging that it creates a safe haven of cruel deliverance. Give it a life so grand, that it is boisterously silent, and needs only to be whispered to shake the flesh into submission; where the mind shall follow the spiraling depths of perversion. If ever it did so rattle the cages of beats.. one beyond the other.. to truly sing within the shadows of restlessness.
If the illusion is to be held, make it count. Otherwise..