Untitled
by Un titled
The dream begins with the face of your mother in a tree. Her normally smooth features are blended grotesquely with the coarse texture of the bark, her eyes hollow pockets partially absorbed into the trunk. As she speaks, each word takes a decade, the seasons flitting by, each as meaningless as the next. You can hear it in your ears like the soft whisperings of the wind. You know that there are words but you cannot make them out or you cannot understand, but you the contradiction of love and fear. In a blink, she is gone, a rough stump in her place. You find tears to be running down your face, with the speed of time moving too quickly to even see her killer. The bark on the edges of the stump slowly grow around the roughly chopped edge, smoothing the harshness of machinery into nature. All around you, new stumps emerge from the ground, together seemingly vibrating to a monotone beat. Words tumble from your mouth like leaves in autumn, the notes the variety of pigments and the meaning the path as they fall. When your last note has died down, the rhythm stops, the silence as powerful as the tone. Grass stalks behind you nudge you to the stump that was your mother, and you walk silently up to the bark throne with a sense of immense power filling your body. As you sit, her skin embraces yours, and you become one, your roots deep into the beginning of life and your branches to its finality. Small petals on your limbs drift into galaxies of their own, spirally softly to the ground. You begin the song again, knowing it to be your last, your breath gently falling over all the beauty that exists.
by Un titled
The dream begins with the face of your mother in a tree. Her normally smooth features are blended grotesquely with the coarse texture of the bark, her eyes hollow pockets partially absorbed into the trunk. As she speaks, each word takes a decade, the seasons flitting by, each as meaningless as the next. You can hear it in your ears like the soft whisperings of the wind. You know that there are words but you cannot make them out or you cannot understand, but you the contradiction of love and fear. In a blink, she is gone, a rough stump in her place. You find tears to be running down your face, with the speed of time moving too quickly to even see her killer. The bark on the edges of the stump slowly grow around the roughly chopped edge, smoothing the harshness of machinery into nature. All around you, new stumps emerge from the ground, together seemingly vibrating to a monotone beat. Words tumble from your mouth like leaves in autumn, the notes the variety of pigments and the meaning the path as they fall. When your last note has died down, the rhythm stops, the silence as powerful as the tone. Grass stalks behind you nudge you to the stump that was your mother, and you walk silently up to the bark throne with a sense of immense power filling your body. As you sit, her skin embraces yours, and you become one, your roots deep into the beginning of life and your branches to its finality. Small petals on your limbs drift into galaxies of their own, spirally softly to the ground. You begin the song again, knowing it to be your last, your breath gently falling over all the beauty that exists.