Tag Archives: Y15

Another Brick in the Wall

-Baleful Basilisk

Flashes of white, where the light had streamed in. Little inexplicable squares of light, set side by side neatly, almost intentionally. They disappeared before I had the instinct to estimate how many. Strangely enough, they would appear whenever the shutters closed quickly. A biological punishment.

Then, blank. Not completely blank, though. Textured black. Sharp, tingling pain.

Something inside dropped. Only on one side. The other felt fine and light. A step function of sorts. In and out. Though the shutters weren’t opening anymore, the entire sequence of events repeated itself till it felt like a steady refrain. Except that was all there was in this song. A steady, ebbing repetition accompanied by rising and falling lightness.

Then it dulled. A sound. It was a whiny, weak sound. Hatred might have intensified it, but pure hatred required a careless energy that this parasite didn’t have. Yet, there was trembling and there wasn’t, at the same time, eyes down and fingers moving. Thought war, edging on the physical. They could all smell it, but no one changed the gears. That only happens when a part makes noise. The competence had to drag this one into the cesspool, while they quietly distanced themselves.

The black was now stained with a reddish hue. A sharp twitch interrupted the process at play. Unsurprisingly, the rhythm moved at its own pace, regardless of the flashes, the twitches, and the sound.

Strange, how easy it is to destroy thoughtfully made things with a puny, malign stroke which needs neither skill nor force. They are, by their very nature, unlike anything else, already fragile with the contradictions they must fit into to survive this matrix.

It didn’t know how far this seemingly rigid and motionless wire could manage to streṭch and bounce back though. And the thing is when skilless hands try to fiddle with sharp edged wires, they get cut. Sooner or later, not intentionally, just by consequence.
The shutters opened when the artist dropped in. Never had the wires been so played. The artist knew. He started on a series of notes which somehow did blend in seamlessly with the rhythm. She tried to normalise it with all her imagination, but she failed. The sprite had no sense of beginning and end, only continuation which was refusing to blend in with the surroundings. She thrived on drops alone. The twisted fatalism mixed in the artist’s veins would make drops build in the drops, as the sprite watched peacefully, unafraid for the first time. It knew these patterns weren’t meant to be imbued with meaning. It was unbound and meaningless, and yet perhaps even more beautiful than it could have been any other way.

So, the artist dropped visibly, and the sprite constructed imaginary rises of the drops until no modicum of sanity remained with either. Sometimes, all of the time, the shutters would close without the sprite’s permission. Then, it flowed one day. Suddenly discrete colours and shapes started mixing in. The floor tiles slowly mixed within themselves and the swivel rose in a sparkly logic defying splash to the roof, hitting the lights. The shimmers fell down on the keys and the keys rose up and down in no pattern at all. Sparkling keys banging on wires, a vision of nothing and everything.
The sprite disintegrated into tiny pieces that vanished as the song ended abruptly.

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Pointless Melodrama

– Baleful Basilisk

No one should read this. At least not if you have a sense of purpose. If you must though, (assuming you are just as pointless as I am) then do.

It’s been quite some time. Dull drudgery, nothing to write about. Wheels turning, life moving forward and me swatting flies. One part of me that is. The other takes care of the pedals, mechanically and precisely. Not an effing detail out of place. Nothing overdone either, since there is no way I love this bicycle. It rolls and I jump on and off and drag myself in the torture machine. A bare line of masochism has started evolving by now and I can’t be brought to care about it.

I wish I still had my roller blades. But I outgrew them and well, life moved on. I miss them. Terribly. They were my first love, and if I did have a learning phase before I was comfortable, I don’t remember it. Funny how many things turned out to be just like my roller blades. Fun while they lasted, eventually misfit and broken, discarded by force into some corner.

I am sitting in this perfect room in a perfect place. And all I can think about is flies. That pisses me off. It must take some strong natural instinct for flies to be so eager. I sit there and do nothing, trouble no one. And they come buzzing in. Seems like hiding behind an open, curtained window isn’t safe enough. Some are like bees, coming to sting me with anger. Leaving behind poison that takes years to drain out. Years of sitting behind curtains. Others are harmless and uninteresting, flying aimlessly, now on my head, in a while sitting on a rotting orange or a dead animal. No distinction. I think it’s time I buy a good swatter. Or clean up.

Except swatting them away would prick my conscience and cleaning this mess is pointless. It’s one of those things which never end. I try to keep it in a tolerable condition, but then it takes just one moment of chaos to roll all the gears right back to where I started from.

The other day, I was trying to find my roller blades. Can’t remember where I kept them last. Or my sanity. Or anything, for that matter. My room is clean and organised, though. It takes an effing ridiculous amount of lost stability to just sit here and write like this. Emotions dribbling down indiscreetly from a machine which has always been loaded beyond capacity. Fucking ridiculous of me to even be doing this.

But I still need things. Like breathing. It happens sometimes, only it feels more like choking. Three years and counting of not breathing. That’s hyperbole of gross proportions, of course. What did you expect in a piece titled melodrama? I’d absolutely love it if I discovered the problem was with my lungs. I would rather believe I had a physical disease than accept that I was sniffing soot. Consistency is for fools, apparently, and I am definitely one.

Then, the volcano I live under. Not in the perfect place. In my permanent abode. Recently classified extinct, hopefully? Survival instincts can kick in when nothing else will. You don’t know it until you do. If you know what’s best for others, however, you don’t keep pets or invite guests. Not that it really matters anymore. I adapted and shrivelled up. The need doesn’t exist anymore. This is vomit. Clearing up my system, building it up to efficiency. No more soot. All gone.

The journey was so much better than its conclusion, right. As if you climbed a dangerous and beautiful mountain, feeling waves of purple and red bursting with warmth in your mind, to find out the peak was just a dirty place the locals use as a trashcan. I can’t believe I battled against all my instincts and experience for this idiocy. Now, I just laugh. Grow the absurdity in a field and set it on fire. You can spend your life trying to break down a wall or just light a cigarette and fade away with a smile. I am not sure if there’s a difference between the two. My choice, made with a witless, smart whiff.

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