nature writing part 9 (surreal)
Posted February 16th, 2018 by Swallowtail
in the depths of the internet
So to explain this: we had to listen to music and write what we were thinking, so this doesnt make much sense.
Rocks falling rolling dust, something far away is getting closer, stopping for breath every so often, now it doesn’t any more, just runs, tripping over itself. Sometimes it finds a rhythm in steps, then goes too fast and stumbles again, continuing as it falls. Everything is dust and burned, faded oranges and browns and blues. Somewhere ahead is a lake, but its location and size and nature are unknown, the only sure thing about it it’s existence. Moving through the air is hard, more like swimming, and frustrating. Hands drag through the air in slow, shuddering movements, hair swirls around faces as people fall, the sound of bones against dirt and skin against rock absorbed by the earth and muffled by the dust.
Curious eyes and halting steps, stopping at corners to peer through blue mist at the edges of buildings that rise up and up then turn into the sky. The narrow gray world is filled with the sounds of birds and nothing else, everything imaginary.
Today is for running without breathing, flying without falling. There’s a softly shining blue-black train rattling through dips in green hills that curve upwards towards the sky. The train leaves purple smoke that dances in the air. The skies are brilliant blue half-covered by white clouds, there is no sun. Without the sun, there shouldn’t be shadows, but there are, deep and long on one side of the hills, even though it is nine in the morning.
A dancer in red, on a tall stage. She too is tall and of the shadows, the edges of her struggling towards the darkness behind her. She moves languidly, unbothered as she is spun back into the inky black surrounding her.
The ceiling is orange and also blue, but it is not orange and blue. There are clouds there too, light gray and thin.
Ships sail with purpose, white sails full. They are utterly tiny, making their way down rivulets and across puddles that will only last hours, but to them these are great rivers and oceans, the ripples caused by wind crashing waves. The decks are of a shining rich red-brown wood, marked with dips and scars. On each deck are little sailors. They don’t seem to have faces or even exist, but still they rush back and forth, busy and happy. Perhaps they are only there because I think they should be, because these little ships are too full of purpose to be empty. Whether they have crews or not, the fleet itself soars onward, gliding over the water under skies as blue as a dream.
In a cave, under sharp stalactites and undulating blueish rock sits a little girl. She has long white hair and blue eyes of the same color as the pool she looks into, and it is the same as her eyes, and her eyes are the same as the water the same as her eyes as the water as her eyes as water as eyes.
There are bees everywhere, lost in their little world even as they are pushed together closer and closer. They sing of warmth and summer and sweet air as the cold presses in and they are closed in dark stone. They are tired and wings ache, they fall slowly to the damp rock, fluttering softly, where they cry plaintively with tongues that won’t work until the darkness fills their mouths too, and then there is nothing.
Lonely water spins around itself in little eddies between softly colored rocks. As the water spins it gets deeper and deeper, but only below the surface, which is an invisible layer untouchable by this loneliness. A raven alights in a silent rush of black feathers, which it holds out on either side, balancing, as it looks up at the sky and cries.
Birds rush around each other, spiraling in cold clear air. The rush of their wings is larger than it should be and fades in and out as they spiral inwards. Always inwards, but it never matters, there are still just as many birds just as far apart even as they fly towards an unnamed center. Below them, the ground is covered in blue fog, rolling over itself in thick curls. Something sleeps under it, the same as the earth but not the earth, much older and much more tired. The flutter of bird wings is overshadowed by its soft breathing.
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