Lift hand gently and let it fall again

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There are never any people in a Prison such as this. Only characters that flit in and out like soap opera chancers, bit part boppers. You can only tend to yourself here and that is the whole purpose of it I think. That’s the whole reason behind the edifice. Even when I sneeze I want to vomit. They even take that small joy away.

I lack the confidence or the strength to fight it any more. All I can do is point now and say “This is it” and walk away as far as the next wall and the next set of bars where I walk up and just rest my hot forehead on cold architecture. 

What would you have me do? To dangle from a tree or the Tupperware box route? What do I have to do, I cry out for someone to just tell me something that isn’t dredged from their own personal madness, where they make their fists bleed hitting walls that are not there. I am not from where you are. I want a big arrow pointing at me to say ‘you are here’ so I know which direction to walk away when all I ever wanted was to belong and to seep into the group mind and the herd mentality, to share my pain with others, to feel arms around me…disconnected in the connected. 

It’s still hot under phantom suns. Still existential. Still painful when the eye stares at everything you hold dear and precious. He awakes on a cold marble disc. The veins of colour thread through the rock underneath his slightly sweating hands. He opens his eyes the merest crack, the smallest lift of an eyelid just so he can peep. He is tired you see and doesn’t want to look any more.

Underneath his fingers is the inlaid metal of sigil upon sigil until it makes so much design, so much intricacy he shuts his eyes tightly and clings on for beautiful death and for loves sake but he wont open his eyes yet as the spells are still strong. He knows the breeze is strange and the spices on the air could be just another simple ruse. But the rock is cold. The sun is hot. He is somewhere in between and he knows he is still alive because he still has the voice inside that prods and pokes the simplicity of a man having a few minutes to orient himself after…what? No knowledge of how he got there and no care either. This man is flotsam and useless. This man has no mind to do anything except be content to be cast from waveform to waveform endlessly as the universe turns, burns and fucking yearns. 

But he can hear birds singing and the breeze through the trees that surround him. This he works out through still shut eyes. Hands still grasping the marble searching for a small crack to push his fingers into so he doesn’t fall away again, and he knows that there is something deep within his mind that remembers the ‘journey’ to this place? He is sure that he was battling some fire heavy demonic thing and tumbling over and over into nothingness and then this. More sigils? More magical bullshit? He should have a customs post in his mind that says “No, that is contraband thought and not allowed.” But it always is of course. Packages of self doubt always wind around. He feels the cold marble underneath his hands and keeps his eyes shut. No more magic, not today. 

 

 

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