May 17, 2006
Inspired by Edward Munch’s Ashes (google image search it if you want to see it... really helps with a visual.
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Scattered. Frazzled. Her hair is frazzled and maimed, as if combed by swipes of the bear’s claw. Frantically, her hands grab at her head. The realization of what exactly had taken place is to her like a blind person waking up with sight. The blood on the forest floor and the whole scene adopts a surreal quality.
Abandoned. Unneeded. The gun is on the floor, thirteen of the fifteen bullets sit unused in the clip - abortions. This is insanity, this is too much. Overwhelmed, she attempts to open her mouth, but no sound comes out – it might have well been stapled shut. This is no longer the kind of air that sound travels through.
Despair. Liquid. Outpouring life oozed and gushed to the floor, one drop at a time. Each drop seemed to stand briefly in the air, as if suspended by some unseen string. Gravity itself was a parasite, draining his life fluid, bit by bit. Death itself becomes embodied in gravity, pulling him closer and closer to the ground. He is on his knees now and steadily declining, powerless to remain upright.
Denial. Futile. This was the extraordinary mistake, yet it cannot be undone. Branches extend and try to cover where the axe hit the tree’s trunk. His hand gropes at the back of his head, the wound. His fingers are but mere twigs compared to the canyon of pain and volcano of red they seek to conceal.
Beating. Paralyzed. A runaway train barrels down the tracks - this is her pulse. A fallen warrior’s sarcophagus rests on the floor of cave, untouched and unmoving for millennia - this is also her pulse. Simultaneously, her heart beats in a cold, frozen, and furious rhythm. A mixture of blood and adrenaline surges through her veins, yet it stands still at the same moment.
Despair. Pain. The halo slips off of the angel’s head and rolls away. Like the man’s eyes, it loses its light and gradually fades away. Rose petals are torn from a flower and the angel loses his wings in the wind.
Waving. Stranded. A stone is cast into the middle of a lake. Tears leak from her eyes and drip down her face. They plummet to the ground, crashing into the forest floor and creating ripples on the earth. Corpses are not seeds. Tears cannot water this body and make it grow.
Shame. Regret. The trees cast shame upon her, and would devour her if they were not but trees. Casting shadows of hatred and exile, they seek to banish her from this forest. The darkness of the woods surrounds her, engulfs her, and consumes her. Her wedding dress has turned black.