Do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive
Do every stupid thing to try to drive the dark away
Do every stupid thing to try to drive the dark away
Familiar yet not. What an apt way to put things.
No worries about brushing past the last few months - they're all the same to you. Ever since your miraculous rescue you've been nowhere. Well, no, that's not strictly true- literally speaking you've been here, between these walls, beneath this roof, upon this couch. Sometimes you get up to use the bathroom. Rarely, you even bathe. You eat when you're reminded to, and you sleep twelve hours a day.
You're alive, but only technically. And you're here, but only in the most literal sense.
Maybe you died that day in the ocean.
Maybe it was long before.
The door creaks open after a pause, more out of obligation than invitation. You don't look up or greet your visitor, just turn and shuffle back inside. The house isn't even messy - that would require too much life. But gods if it isn't damned depressing, a once-beloved doll's house now occupied by ghosts. You're not far off from being one of em, all papery and thin with sunken eyes and sallow skin and stringy hair. What would El say, if she could see you now? What would Vai?
Good riddance, probably.
But they aren't here, are they? No, they're dead, dead as doornails, dead as dreams, dead as you really oughta be. They're dead and buried and so is Ray and all you have left are their ghosts and poisoned memories and too much rum and not enough soul and a whole lot of nightmares and ---
--- and ---
-- oh yeah. And Jack.
No worries about brushing past the last few months - they're all the same to you. Ever since your miraculous rescue you've been nowhere. Well, no, that's not strictly true- literally speaking you've been here, between these walls, beneath this roof, upon this couch. Sometimes you get up to use the bathroom. Rarely, you even bathe. You eat when you're reminded to, and you sleep twelve hours a day.
You're alive, but only technically. And you're here, but only in the most literal sense.
Maybe you died that day in the ocean.
Maybe it was long before.
The door creaks open after a pause, more out of obligation than invitation. You don't look up or greet your visitor, just turn and shuffle back inside. The house isn't even messy - that would require too much life. But gods if it isn't damned depressing, a once-beloved doll's house now occupied by ghosts. You're not far off from being one of em, all papery and thin with sunken eyes and sallow skin and stringy hair. What would El say, if she could see you now? What would Vai?
Good riddance, probably.
But they aren't here, are they? No, they're dead, dead as doornails, dead as dreams, dead as you really oughta be. They're dead and buried and so is Ray and all you have left are their ghosts and poisoned memories and too much rum and not enough soul and a whole lot of nightmares and ---
--- and ---
-- oh yeah. And Jack.
zephyr
Let people call you crazy for the choices that you make
Climb limits past the limits, jump in front of trains all day
Climb limits past the limits, jump in front of trains all day
totally sniped from odd ilu
