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Shell (don't read if depressed)
Former Member
Posts: 1,876,323 The Mix Honorary Guru
Well, I know this is a cliche, I don't need anyone to tell me this. But I saw the bathroom scene of 'The Royal Tennenbaums' and it really moved me. So yep.
Beads of liquid well up from a single line; one crack in an otherwise impermeable shell. The fissure widens and drops form a trickle. The trickle joins others which are emerging from similar ravines, newly hewed and surging, torrent-like from the precipice; mingling with the hot, turbulent waters bubbling up from a deep basin below. I tip my head forward and stare into the swirling waters. Lank hair shades my view: vision through strands of darkness. The world advances and recedes, cut into pieces by the thin threads upon my face. Sinking towards the edge in a vertigous stupor, I lean away from the edge and am momentarily pulled back into my senses.
I look away; vision jumping focus. There are flowers blossoming upon my white linen dress. They reveal their crimson petals; seeds given life from my own body, drawn from my own blood. The fractures that let the flood forth are etched into me. Mere skin cannot with hold the deluge. The rivets drown beneath the flow. These messy limbs no longer belong to the corpse that feeds them. Limp arms hang useless over the side of the sink. They tingle, each buzz a tiny explosion in my veins. Shells bursting for with liquid fire. It singes my skin, pouring lava from a fleshy, cracked volcano. White granite scored by molten rock.
I watch the scores of scarlet droplets collect at my fingertips; staining my fingernails as a red as a siren's varnish before being dashed into the water below. They bloom under the surface of the ever darker pool beneath my stare.
I shall be my own God: Creator, Maker, Destroyer. As God parted the waters, so I part my own flesh. I press my elbows to the edge of the basin. I lift my arms towards the water. My bare wrists expose the cuts of mortal cloth.. But they are no longer pure. The once impermeable, flawless shell is a shredded membrane.
I have finger painted my knees, and hand prints on my thighs. Where are all the other colours? Just red and black and white. Where are all the paints? I cant find them. But it doesn't seem to matter anymore. I am already covered, and there is no one else to paint. But someone still has a tube. They are splashing the tiles on the floor. Ceramic tiles are good for painting, and the little red bombs splattered across the white tiles make such contrast. Like blood upon pale skin. A war zone.
I lift my arms above my head to staunch the flow of paint. Instead, the liquid trickles down the elbows, tickling its way along a course to my collar bone. I can feel the hot sticky sweetness seeping into matted hair. Red and black, perhaps it will dye those dark fronds. I giggle, lowering my hands and sinking to the floor. My view lolls to one side, and will not right itself. I can feel the wet, tangled warmth of my hair next to my cheek now. To raise my head again seems to be an insurmountable task, so I leave it there, resting on my shoulder.
Steaming water condenses upon the side of the sink, rolling to the cracks in the tiles before forming tributaries snaking towards a ruby ocean. I am still a shell, but now by the sea. The tide is drawing in and out. It is red like the basin. In and out, like a shell rocked by the wave upon the sand. In and out, light and dark. Wave upon wave of sharp sand and soft surf. The red and white ripple through my sight. The light is distorted; diffused through the water. It feels better that way. The harshness has gone. The terrible stinging has ceased. I am in deep water. The surface is above, below, but I am always submerged.
I lean back against the wall. A blank wall. My mind is a blank wall. Painted white, but like all the others, they took that paint tin away. The hair is gone from my face. No black left, just white. Everything is draining away. Soon there will be nothing left. I will have drained away with it. But still here shall stay an empty shell: spaceless, thoughtless, feeling nothing. Drifting into a remote realm, I shall become separation itself. I become a part of apart. Everything grows loose and mellow. I feel light and free, so slide down the wall. It feels like a long way to drop, but I don't have to fall - I can float. If you close your eyes you can jump right in. It feels a little cold, but it soon passes away. But I feel something. My hand. It is closed. But something is inside. I am keeping it safe, or hidden. I don't want to look. I am grasping something so hard it hurts. Slicing into my hand, cracking through the crust. I let go, releasing the small metallic perpetrator from my hand, and plunge.
I am a shell.
Beads of liquid well up from a single line; one crack in an otherwise impermeable shell. The fissure widens and drops form a trickle. The trickle joins others which are emerging from similar ravines, newly hewed and surging, torrent-like from the precipice; mingling with the hot, turbulent waters bubbling up from a deep basin below. I tip my head forward and stare into the swirling waters. Lank hair shades my view: vision through strands of darkness. The world advances and recedes, cut into pieces by the thin threads upon my face. Sinking towards the edge in a vertigous stupor, I lean away from the edge and am momentarily pulled back into my senses.
I look away; vision jumping focus. There are flowers blossoming upon my white linen dress. They reveal their crimson petals; seeds given life from my own body, drawn from my own blood. The fractures that let the flood forth are etched into me. Mere skin cannot with hold the deluge. The rivets drown beneath the flow. These messy limbs no longer belong to the corpse that feeds them. Limp arms hang useless over the side of the sink. They tingle, each buzz a tiny explosion in my veins. Shells bursting for with liquid fire. It singes my skin, pouring lava from a fleshy, cracked volcano. White granite scored by molten rock.
I watch the scores of scarlet droplets collect at my fingertips; staining my fingernails as a red as a siren's varnish before being dashed into the water below. They bloom under the surface of the ever darker pool beneath my stare.
I shall be my own God: Creator, Maker, Destroyer. As God parted the waters, so I part my own flesh. I press my elbows to the edge of the basin. I lift my arms towards the water. My bare wrists expose the cuts of mortal cloth.. But they are no longer pure. The once impermeable, flawless shell is a shredded membrane.
I have finger painted my knees, and hand prints on my thighs. Where are all the other colours? Just red and black and white. Where are all the paints? I cant find them. But it doesn't seem to matter anymore. I am already covered, and there is no one else to paint. But someone still has a tube. They are splashing the tiles on the floor. Ceramic tiles are good for painting, and the little red bombs splattered across the white tiles make such contrast. Like blood upon pale skin. A war zone.
I lift my arms above my head to staunch the flow of paint. Instead, the liquid trickles down the elbows, tickling its way along a course to my collar bone. I can feel the hot sticky sweetness seeping into matted hair. Red and black, perhaps it will dye those dark fronds. I giggle, lowering my hands and sinking to the floor. My view lolls to one side, and will not right itself. I can feel the wet, tangled warmth of my hair next to my cheek now. To raise my head again seems to be an insurmountable task, so I leave it there, resting on my shoulder.
Steaming water condenses upon the side of the sink, rolling to the cracks in the tiles before forming tributaries snaking towards a ruby ocean. I am still a shell, but now by the sea. The tide is drawing in and out. It is red like the basin. In and out, like a shell rocked by the wave upon the sand. In and out, light and dark. Wave upon wave of sharp sand and soft surf. The red and white ripple through my sight. The light is distorted; diffused through the water. It feels better that way. The harshness has gone. The terrible stinging has ceased. I am in deep water. The surface is above, below, but I am always submerged.
I lean back against the wall. A blank wall. My mind is a blank wall. Painted white, but like all the others, they took that paint tin away. The hair is gone from my face. No black left, just white. Everything is draining away. Soon there will be nothing left. I will have drained away with it. But still here shall stay an empty shell: spaceless, thoughtless, feeling nothing. Drifting into a remote realm, I shall become separation itself. I become a part of apart. Everything grows loose and mellow. I feel light and free, so slide down the wall. It feels like a long way to drop, but I don't have to fall - I can float. If you close your eyes you can jump right in. It feels a little cold, but it soon passes away. But I feel something. My hand. It is closed. But something is inside. I am keeping it safe, or hidden. I don't want to look. I am grasping something so hard it hurts. Slicing into my hand, cracking through the crust. I let go, releasing the small metallic perpetrator from my hand, and plunge.
I am a shell.
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