Friday, July 15, 2005
Apocalypse Past
Shouting, loud, angry voices culminating in a declaration of hate.
A confused clattering of slippers on concrete, growing steadily more irregular till at last they ceased, their owner flying on barefoot without them...
*****
He watched the road slide by, his hands on the steering wheel and eyes fixed dead ahead on nothing in particular.
But he saw her still, out of the corner of his eye. He was acutely aware of her, without having to turn his head, he could see her; eyes glittering in the dark , head held high, furiously biting back the tears as her chest heaved in an uneven mix of anger and fear. Dark hair falling in rolling cascades over her broadly-set shoulders, which eventually she swept impatiently into a ponytail.
She didn't cry - even after all that - she just breathed. And thought.
So he didn't reach back and hand her a tissue, or reach out to her, to give her a measure of comfort.
She didn't need it.
She was too strong - her chains were from without.
*****
They were just words, on the screen.
Black text, on a white background.
But their uncharacteristic brevity told him how badly she was hurting. Where words usually cascaded from her effortlessly (and often thoughtlessly) they were focused now. Terse, acute. Unwasted.
She bled out her shattered emotional state even over the impersonality of the internet.
He knew her well.
This one had a fragile soul, and deserved to be held and comforted by someone she could trust.
Someone who would take her away to the faraway lands she dreamt of that you can only really reach from inside your head.
A prisoner of her own device.
(Composed and performed by Sara-ann K, linked on the left as "National Nutplane")
A confused clattering of slippers on concrete, growing steadily more irregular till at last they ceased, their owner flying on barefoot without them...
*****
He watched the road slide by, his hands on the steering wheel and eyes fixed dead ahead on nothing in particular.
But he saw her still, out of the corner of his eye. He was acutely aware of her, without having to turn his head, he could see her; eyes glittering in the dark , head held high, furiously biting back the tears as her chest heaved in an uneven mix of anger and fear. Dark hair falling in rolling cascades over her broadly-set shoulders, which eventually she swept impatiently into a ponytail.
She didn't cry - even after all that - she just breathed. And thought.
So he didn't reach back and hand her a tissue, or reach out to her, to give her a measure of comfort.
She didn't need it.
She was too strong - her chains were from without.
*****
They were just words, on the screen.
Black text, on a white background.
But their uncharacteristic brevity told him how badly she was hurting. Where words usually cascaded from her effortlessly (and often thoughtlessly) they were focused now. Terse, acute. Unwasted.
She bled out her shattered emotional state even over the impersonality of the internet.
He knew her well.
This one had a fragile soul, and deserved to be held and comforted by someone she could trust.
Someone who would take her away to the faraway lands she dreamt of that you can only really reach from inside your head.
A prisoner of her own device.
(Composed and performed by Sara-ann K, linked on the left as "National Nutplane")
