lennyathena
She always felt like there was something closing in on her. They were different things every time - deadlines, dates, the arms of her lovers, one after another. But inside she knew they were all the same, something dark and black looming in on her, and she could only hold her breath and still the quivering of her mind as it passed.
She longed for something different, some sort of closing in that she desired and savored. The only thing she could do was to draw her curtains and wrap herself up in her many layers of sheets and comforters, another stifling thing closing in around her, and think about what she could have been.
she danced in large swooping circles as she painted; rather, she painted as she danced. you wouldn't have known that she was even dancing in circles unless you viewed her from above, maybe in an aeroplane or a bladed helicopter, or if you were flying on one of those - contraptions, as she danced herself into colored contractions (fin).
by the time he'd submerged himself fully in the cold water, his fingertips were already beginning to numb and tingle. it was okay, though, because he liked it. it made him feel clean and full of straw and sunlight and warm sunny mountain slopes. it made him feel like he was right in his existence. it wasn't like there was blood on his hands or anything, he told himself.
he swiped, tapped, dragged, scaled. there were a million things he could do, and a million things he could do without doing them. he looked up, and in the sky (the color of a raw fish, in trefalgar) he could see the harpies doing their erratic dance. he sighed. the signal had died again, and when he pressed "reconnect," nothing happened.
she rose up from the ashes of the old city, with curving passages and blacking marbled on the sidewalks, the city that was built around the fleeting woman who barely existed. in every corner she was there (and ought to have been), yet she was not, but she was embedded in the heart of the city, yet she was not.
she snuggled up with her orange cat named roark and her macbook and she'd type away on long grey afternoons that faded so quickly into nights, with the laptop propped up on her stomach and roark pawing at her socks (the old thick fleecy ones that she really should wash).
#wishlist
in her straight gray skinnies and that sort-of-loose-but-mostly-tight jacket she looked anything but. inside, though, everything was rainbow, and sometimes she could hear the echoes of her soul, at night, when the moonlight sliced through blinds she'd forgotten to close, onto her bare feet.
he smiled and drew more circles. was this what it felt like to be a god? he built chess-boards that weren't really chess-boards and moved the pieces at will, without law. (with law, he'd later revise it to say, but by his laws only.) it took a while to remember his name, and even then, he still felt indecent naming himself. he shouldn't really have existed. he was only there to be a divine mover, indeed.
her eyes narrowed in a delicious way. first the only thing he could see was the movement of her eyelashes, which weren't long or feathery but simply fine, and the very slight shadow it cast on the soft skin beneath her eye. then he could see the lightly speckled tinge of her eyelid move in a precise and even movement, without jitters - only down.
she fluttered lightly in the murky air but all he could focus on was the tips of her wingfeathers - the long broad ones at the very ends of her wings, and the tips where the fine fibers branched out from the slim frame. it was almost like the way she looked at him, when her eyelids were so near-closed that her eyelashes drew winglike impressions on those cheekbones.
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