Sep. 10th, 2015

Beyond

Sep. 10th, 2015 12:42 pm
memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
Sometimes, when the mirrored framework that holds her does not shiver and crack a hairline’s breadth to release her for a fleeting journey, Evelyn sleeps like anyone else; and when she sleeps, she dreams, and remembers.

Sometimes the dreams are nightmares, blood and fire and battle, suffocation as she is drawn into spaces too small, too dark, the echo of cruel, commanding voices coiling around her mind like serpents. But they aren’t always this.

There are dreams that she feels more than she remembers when she wakes, as if the entire structure, the entire language of image and emotion she expresses within them is something so far beyond her limited physical dimensionality that her waking mind struggles to translate. She knows there is a pulsating intertwining of color and song; everything is song, even the trees, the stars and the planets, the wind and the seas, the biting things that crawl in the dark and the yawning chasm of emptiness at the edge of sanity. They all sing in these dreams, and she is a part of the melody, a harmonious chorus that weaves and dances and spirals through all things. She doesn’t have a name for what she is, but she does have a Name, and it is her song as much as it is her, her part of the chorus, and that song swims and dives through layer upon layer of Time and Space and Potentiality as if through a bottomless ocean depth.

She can sometimes feel herself flitting on the icy North Wind like a spray of snowflakes, or the frigid whisper of winter, or like the Wind itself, perhaps– though no, no, these words are still too constrained to the surface of things. She has been, has lived, has had existence, does have existence. Someday she will be truly free again, though sometimes she thinks that might be lonely.

Stellar

Sep. 10th, 2015 12:44 pm
memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
An entry in Evelyn's private handwritten journal.

When you fall in love with a star you may not even realize it at first. Night after night after night, you will step from your safe little house, slipping past the threshold to emerge beneath the expanse of shimmering infinity, and you will look up and see it, that one star. And you will smile, and you will say, “Such a beautiful star. It shines so brightly, and so intensely. So furiously!” And you wonder at its ancientness, wonder what things it has seen, the aeons that have swirled endlessly beneath it on worlds you’ve only ever dreamt of. For a fleeting instant on one of these nights, you may think of it as Your star, but then you realize what a foolish notion that is, how thoroughly offensive even. As if anyone could ever own a star.

And the star is distant, and you often believe that you can detect a kindness directed your way, a gentle fondness within its silvery light; but still it is always distant, though paradoxically you feel as though you could touch it simply by lifting a hand. It looks cold, an icy luminous diamond against the eternal blackness of the sky, but you know it isn’t cold, not really. It’s just very, very far away, and you wonder what it would be like to be close to the star– truly close. You would be vaporized, of course. In an instant. Obliterated within the unfathomable pressure, the burning, untameable inferno of its core. One does not try to embrace a star. But sometimes, just sometimes, you think it might be worth it.
memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
Evelyn often takes long walks in her small-town Louisiana neighborhood, inhaling the scent of the wisteria, the oleander, the crepe myrtle that froth along the verdant lawns, melodic colors accented by the thrumming, subdued harmonies of the aging, peeling hues painted on the houses. The warm spring wind caresses her face, bringing with it the taste of rain, tiny droplets shimmering in the heavy air. She turns her face to the overcast sky, her eyes picking out the subtleties of the swirls of violet and indigo, touches of warm green in the deepest shadows, a faint tinge of pink in the light, flecks of gold limning the edges of cloud where the sun peeks through. Gray is not a word in her vocabulary– she sees too many intricacies to use such a crude and overly simplistic descriptor.

She breathes in these colors, these refractions of light and music that dance in her mind. They bring her a sort of peace, easing the ache in her head, her body, her soul. She feels the life around her, and it makes her smile, a faint but slowly re-illuminated memory of joy and desperately earned freedom
memoirsverse: (Memoirs)
An excerpt from Evelyn Alvar’s first book in the Memoirs of a Tourist series, in which her heroine, Tara Midas, tries to describe her journeys:

“This world is so… three dimensional,” Tara said. "So flat. You can only move along its surface, back to front, side to side. The circumference of a clock. But I’ve learned how to slip past that, through it. I’ve learned how to fly.“ She considered these words in silence for a moment. "It’s not something that can be described. Words are only symbols, after all, representational. Powerful only because of what they describe, powerful because they bring a flimsy sort of tangibility to the intangible. But the actuality is so much greater.”

Nightmare

Sep. 10th, 2015 12:50 pm
memoirsverse: (Evelyn)
Dreams, too many dreams that sear themselves across her consciousness, choking her , smothering her. She gags at the stench of burning flesh as smoke blinds her. Screaming metallic voices tear through her hearing, and all she can think is Run. Run. Run. But she can’t– they won’t allow it, these ancient men with madness in their eyes. She just wants to wake up. She is drawn from her burned and broken body like a last breath. She sees a stoppered bottle, an ornate thing, gilded with circular script, something that might hold perfume. It is so much larger within. This will house you temporarily until an appropriate body is found, the men say. You will forget, they say. But you will remember one day, and when you do, we will be waiting. There is a liminal echo of command, of threat to their words.

She just wants to wake up.

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