Mister Sandman, bring me a dream...
Jun. 27th, 2008 11:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nomorekaraokeIt starts slowly. It starts slowly, in the darkness. It starts slowly, in the darkness, rushing through him like a live current. It thrums, a living, breathing, watching beast of a thing, and he can't escape. It's made of drums, smells of foreign spices and exotic flowers, and it dances like Shiva.
Its breath is music. It is death and life all wrapped up in one, steady crescendo, and he can't escape. It's everywere, seeping into his pores, circling the darker green spots on his face, on his arms and his back and his legs like tiny little teeth biting into rotten fruit. It burns. He bleeds high notes; high notes and piña coladas.
The sun shines, and he can't escape, no clouds in sight, no clouds in sight because he's floating in the blackest of lakes, an ancient monster wrapped in sparkling seaweed, like something out of a dark and ominous verse by Allan Poe, Edgar. Voices in his ear, breath on his face, and he can't open his eyes. Somewhere far away, the world melts and the skies come crashing down, and there's no way out. He can't breathe for the noose around his neck, can't breathe for the arms holding his ribcage like a vice. Can't breathe for the lies shoved down his throat--
Shh.
Somewhere far away, the bedposts scream and the windows crack from laughing too loud. Cheshire Cats everywhere, spying, singing lullabies to unsuspecting children caught in a world not their own. Adam and Eve'll bring you basketfuls of apples. They're homegrown. Their eyes are moist like overripe figs, and he can't take the stench.
Shh.
Everything stops. Everything stops, but slowly. Everything stops, slowly, gently, everything quiets down but his heartbeat, everything but his breath, bubbling behind his eyelids.
A voice in his ears, left, then right; cheek to cheek and a chin on his shoulder. Hand on his throat, soft and calloused and strong and gentle. An arm around his chest, like a cradle, and he sags into it.
He doesn't fall. Someone, whoever it is, keeps him upright. He lies back, and he doesn't fall. His body aches, his bones are broken and weary, but he can't feel a thing. He feels too much.
Warmth, washing over him in waves, waves lapping at the bends of his knees, and he curls up into it. He sinks into the arms, into the simple warmth of being held.
Safe. He feels safe. The wind blows, but he can't feel it. He's wrapped up in sunshine; there's a smile pressed to his cheek like he's the most precious thing in the world.
He is.
Its breath is music. It is death and life all wrapped up in one, steady crescendo, and he can't escape. It's everywere, seeping into his pores, circling the darker green spots on his face, on his arms and his back and his legs like tiny little teeth biting into rotten fruit. It burns. He bleeds high notes; high notes and piña coladas.
The sun shines, and he can't escape, no clouds in sight, no clouds in sight because he's floating in the blackest of lakes, an ancient monster wrapped in sparkling seaweed, like something out of a dark and ominous verse by Allan Poe, Edgar. Voices in his ear, breath on his face, and he can't open his eyes. Somewhere far away, the world melts and the skies come crashing down, and there's no way out. He can't breathe for the noose around his neck, can't breathe for the arms holding his ribcage like a vice. Can't breathe for the lies shoved down his throat--
Shh.
Somewhere far away, the bedposts scream and the windows crack from laughing too loud. Cheshire Cats everywhere, spying, singing lullabies to unsuspecting children caught in a world not their own. Adam and Eve'll bring you basketfuls of apples. They're homegrown. Their eyes are moist like overripe figs, and he can't take the stench.
Shh.
Everything stops. Everything stops, but slowly. Everything stops, slowly, gently, everything quiets down but his heartbeat, everything but his breath, bubbling behind his eyelids.
A voice in his ears, left, then right; cheek to cheek and a chin on his shoulder. Hand on his throat, soft and calloused and strong and gentle. An arm around his chest, like a cradle, and he sags into it.
He doesn't fall. Someone, whoever it is, keeps him upright. He lies back, and he doesn't fall. His body aches, his bones are broken and weary, but he can't feel a thing. He feels too much.
Warmth, washing over him in waves, waves lapping at the bends of his knees, and he curls up into it. He sinks into the arms, into the simple warmth of being held.
Safe. He feels safe. The wind blows, but he can't feel it. He's wrapped up in sunshine; there's a smile pressed to his cheek like he's the most precious thing in the world.
He is.
