"There are forms of oppression and domination which become invisible - the new normal." FOUCALT, Michael
By: New Order
From: Power, Corruption & Lies (1983)
Two corpse can't stay on a same place, at same time.
However, they can float upon or below another. Just like dandelions blew by the wind. Where do they go? Left, right, up, down... They dance like bees. Birds and bees. They have wings, and an appreciation for pollen, while some of us are allergic to it. Like Puck, for example. He was never found of any flowers. They are just leaves who adapted themselves with time, so he gave Eiko a bunch of green leaves. To think her dog ate them afterwards... my feet stepping upon a moss carpet; a common gift from the place where I belong. This ain't the place where I used to live, but since water runs down the mountains as much as it runs down a sink made of silver, that's fine. Water... water, Hellen. Water. Where life began before bones and words made us into what we are. I am... I am Fratley, other than a pile of bones. But here on this tub, I can be anything.
Out of a hand, comes a bird. Sinks to the bottom of the bathtub, and no fishes to be found. Only a sunk ship. Soap covers my lips, and a bubble comes out with a blow. It doesn't last for too long, even when they land inside the tub, or when they land at the fluffy carpet. Hair strands tangled to another like the tentacles of an octopus, separated by a grey comb made out of my claws. Scratching the skin alike a chalk onto a blackboard, or a chalk anywhere it's pressed against. But my fingers do not disappear like they do. As I said, I can be anything on this tub, except someone free. My head hurts. It burns even submerged on cold water. My nose got clogged, with my limpy ears stuck I can barely hear a noise like before, other than hearing my dirt being sucked in. I cry, but I do not feel sad at all.
Warm tears run down my face, and they taste salty. That's how my runny nose tastes as well. The only kind of taste I am able to feel these days. I also feel the sides of my nose burning as if corrosive acid had been dropped on them. Not only there, but... I feel chained to these walls. Liquid comes out of my open hands, and decisions. To wake up with a mouth dry in the morning, to see her face and become dry of words. Things other than breathe and dirty I try to get out of me, so many of them... Now that makes me sad. Sad as an old man reaching for his gun, walking on the street where the wall fell down. To think I'm already that old... except they do share of stories to be told. Funny moments that happened in a past life that might have pissed me off, but what really matters is to make someone laugh, or react anyway.
A crushed cockroach near death moves its legs, but doesn't sing like a cricket. I know what you feel, other than pain. Diminished, unable to get out, to rise again to the pinnacle only to fall. Maybe... I am the only one here who feels something. Maybe I'm bored. As long as I acknowledges that feelings exist, that there is a a reason to life, other than being crushed by someone else's feet, I do not have a reason to be bored. Or bothered, since these words looks the same, and I feel the same in regards to them. How many times had I been crushed, only to resist this far? Nobody steps on a same needle, unless it's a fool. Freya isn't one, neither I am to be unable to express how do I feel. For real. Think, therefore I exist... if I exist, therefore I am real. Still I am Fratley Irontail, despite what happened. Despite the title of Sir throw away as the keys of a kingdom come.
As far as I know, nobody ever reached there. No witnesses that came back to life. I just survived, but sometimes I feel that I died. Only dreaming of black these past weeks, or maybe I just forgot how dreams look alike. Fake instead of bringing the hope I need. A wardrobe doesn't bring your clothes to you, since you need to reach there and open it. It's easy to open objects, and tear people apart. Are these things that my old self used to think about? Does it really matter? It does, for Freya. As for me, though... everyone has memories, except me. I'm not everyone, but a piece of everyone belongs to me. Not memories, but what we are used to since the beginning. Mom, dad... everyone has one. Heard about one, for those who had none. Orphanages are like mothers, though some may be harsh and cruel like jails. Not that there is a kind person there and here, but what is easy to be saw or listened gets at you easier as well.
When did alexandrian music began to be so easily listened, since I'm not an alexandrian? Neither I am the mellow keys of a piano, just the one who touches them. Dó Re Mi Fá Sol La Si Dó Dó Dó Dó Dó Dó Dó Dó... I don't like piano that much. Maybe I liked, had an experience on it, but if that's the case, Freya would know which instrument I played before. I do not rely on what she knows all the time, since there are so many things we hid from another. Not a desire to kill, but seeing people being killed in front of you, for example. And then you write about a couple getting murdered on paper, but they aren't a couple alone. There is a copy of this Lord Avon's 'I Want to be your Canary' sold cheaper than wheat. I read this book, though I saw the play first and there is quite a lot on the book. That's why they call these by adaptations.
This is the second edition, since the first one where Princess Cornelia gets killed in the middle isn't that popular. Haven't been adapted to a play yet, like many burmecian manuscripts written in codexs. Someday, there'll be only pictures instead of a whole book, but to this day, we pretend to imagine how everything looks alike. I hear 'you' being spoken instead of and old-fashioned 'thou' coming out of Marcus, a beggar who is torn in love with Cornelia. Well, anyone is a beggar near someone born on a crib of gold. Forward... then Cornelia gets captured by her own father, King Leo, whom I prefer to call by Bernaur, which sounds like a roar, then Marcus crosses swords to Leo... interesting. A character from a theather piece that resembles you, but it ain't you. Been written by you, but a character can also mean something other than a person.
Marcus is younger, whereas King Leo is old; the later has a noble title, as the former, despite being from a lower class, is far more noble than the noble should had been. Now, do people other than me interpret scenes like this? Not that I can read minds, but many just want Marcus and Cornelia to kiss each other, marry and live happily ever after. Happiness ain't that easy, except if you are a child. But even they feel bored some time. Doing time instead of letting it slip away to a hole as the water of bath. And to think I'll drink it again... a love that comes in and out brought by the fingers of imagination. Set your mind free, unleash your imagination, but all I hear are the same chords, same vocals, same structure. And Freya keeps reading the same pages of that book. She tries her best to help me when I feel empty, confused, dazzled.
Yet, which one of us is truly lost, this I would want to know. Nobody shows the way for free, nothing I see is done for free. None of us is free, inside this room, and outside too. Stretched corridors lead me to other places, a library who stood against time and fires spread. Wearing red alike fire, skin grey as ashes, a tail who holds of a ribbon tied at the tip... Had I the time that book had been offered, maybe I could tell Freya. Tell something, but I don't want to interrupt someone in the middle of reading. It ain't polite, a thing I must had been on past life. To this day I am polite, not by a matter of choice, but it's said that if you do something good, you get good back at you. Time doesn't come back, and out of the many bad things that happened to us and those who live in this world... a single good thing is worthy a try.
— How are you doing, darling? – I asked, wondering if I ever called Freya by this. Better than call her by other names. Each word mistaken became something bad to be said these days, like calling a woman by fat. Or calling the fat by fat. Nobody says that Freya is tall, for same words not be mistaken, or because it's a detail barely noticed. Taller than me...
— Uh? Fratley... I'm occupied.
— I see – she always seems occupied, doing something important. All I want to is do something that matters, other than talking with someone – how you had been doing?
— I'm fine, Fratley. I don't like books that much. Scientific ones, in particular, who hold of so much information...
— I feel fine too.
— Good. Have you took a bath?
— Yes, though my ears are still stuck.
— Not that much of a problem, as long as you can still hear.
— I like to hear your voice – suddenly, everything turned quiet. An end for the brief enjoyment life had offered me, this before Freya turned in to read my face. To think I've heard her voice so many times, and only now I notice something particular in it. Not enough for me to remember, but this moment – I mean, out of the many I heard before, yours is, well... – then I have no words left to say. A page in blank all over my face, and as for Freya's one... Somehow, I feel pulled in by those backwater eyes, covered by white alike foam strands – I don't know what to say. There are so many things I could say, a plenty of possibilities, and now that I've ended up choosing none of them...
— Be honest, Fratley – to be fair, I have been improvising what I've said. It's like a stream of thoughts, but I do not want to be flushed away by any of them. Oh, what the heck, just be what Freya said you too.
— Well, I'm tired of hearing my own voice. Yours is different than mine. You are something else other than me, Freya, and that's what you need to know. Guess you already knew it, but not on this same way, if you can understand me.
— I understand – Freya said, in a few words. The way she said 'I understand' conveyed a bit of sorrow, yet I felt a bit, if only a bit, of clarity. Not as bright as what is found outside the window, or the white shed by her hair, something who didn't glowed alike that armor getting hit by sunshine. Or the tip of that spear, the one who's far more closer of Freya than I do. But from it's tip to its bottom, a spear ain't alike me from my head to my toes. Instead of a person to be inspired or to give inspiration to, it's just a tool. Cold, rigid, though there's still something in me filled of death.
— Hey, Freya – I said, soon as she came to read another page, filled in of words that stay there all time – I just wanted you to know that I'll be out, and... mind if I buy something for you? – like before, I said whatever it came to my mind. A whatever that disappear for tomorrow, or a minute longer as tomorrow.
— And what would it be?
— I... – I don't know. I really don't, but I won't say it on her face – well, take a guess.
— A gift? – in a way, yes.
— Soon you'll see what it is – I said, with a smoker alike voice, though I do not smoke, never that I did in fact. Yes, facts... the only evidence that I had a past. Just like everyone. Everyone catches cold, getting a clogged nose, an only hole to breathe. That's not the way my voice sounded alike, but it won't matter soon as I buy a medication for it. And a gift for Freya, of course – alright, see you again soon.
Was that a way to say 'goodbye'. But I know that I'll be back this time.
Back with a gift, that's right. But which kind? I didn't even asked to Freya, or didn't wanted to. I recall I said, or made an impression, that it would be a surprise. Nothing seems to surprises a Dragoon who saw it all. Who see the clouds as far as they are able to touch them. It's raining. God, it's raining. I do not complain for something I have missed for a long time. Portions of the skies are divided in blue, gray and white alike an ice cream, thought not everything is cold under the rain and its colours. Unknown colours who do not hold of a name, other than transparent. The ocean is blue when the sky is blue. Here on Alexandria, the puddle of water is feeded by the dirt of barefoot boys. I used to be one of them, without the need of worrying about my hygiene or the kind of impression given to the girls in embroidrered dresses.
The sun shining in white, a bright star burning my eyes as a fly hanging on a wall... Not everyone sees this rain as a gift. It won't last for too long, nothing lasts. Right, the gift. It won't last too, but I'm willing to give whatever it may be. Green syrups that are said to heal your wounds at time, flowers made of paper, cotton candies that will melt in the rain, a pendulum to put in your throath for your taenia to come out of your intestine? Oh, they sell so many things to this day. That Amarant too, but I do not trust his business that much. Sure, he is working, and look at you, who used to be a Dragoon Knight, who used to be something other than an empty vessel, now filled in of rain, and something. I got something... something heaven knows. I don't know. I feel this, but I do not know how to express it.
There aren't right words. Only words for us to do right. 'House' spells like 'haulz', 'paper' is alike 'pepper' but it ain't. So many things, but in the end, these are things. But what matters is the way you present them, just like characters in a book. Some may be unlikeable, some may be too much likeable, some suffer for another to bring comfort. A mother sings a lullaby for its children to be put on a deep and safe sleep. A mortal who stole the fire from the gods, and the one who wrote about it... must had been someone inspired. I have no compass, and I have no religion to guide me where I should or shouldn't go. What I do seek, and what can't be achieved. I am in search of inspiration, enough of a gift worthy for anyone to be endowed by. I could hold Freya with my arms, but I do not have the strenght. Physic one, but words do share of a strenght.
Maybe I can find some inspiration after taking out these clothes. But I can't do this in the middle of a street, though a statue of General Madelene lies there, undress. Used to, before people asked for a change, so they covered the statue with an armor to protect from vandalism. How ironic... I could write about it, but sometimes, a gift is an only gift. Words belong to everyone, but which one to choose... a poem? That's right. A poem about what? Well, it's for Freya, so it should be about her. What I do feel for her, the way the entire world changes when I see her, a brief mention of her attributes as methaporical objects that represents a reality unable to be expressed even in the words I'm about to write... so many possibilities. Fortunately, I have brought a book, an empty page within, a dry ceiling, a chair to stand upon, and someone to ask for a pen. And a pocket of gil to buy something to drink.
A poem for Freya. Where do I begin? Hand-made gifts sure are the best. Everything is made by hand, but when it comes to be yours is something else. The efforts of yours coming out of your own self for another self. Fre-ya... It spells like 'Furaeia'. It rhymes with... with... Aya? Pariah?... Papaya? Now that's ridiculous. Love is ridiculous, anyway. What we do for the sake of an unreachable love is something ridicilous as seeing a happy Syshipus after rolling down. No, Freya rhymes better with... Gaia? That's the name of our planet. Rhymes do not need to be written alike, but how they sound alike counts too. So this will be a rhymed poem? A lot can be expressed. I can tell that I love someone by the name of Freya even without mentioning her name, but one of her distinctive characteristics.
So, Freya... She's tall, wears red, is a Dragoon Knight, has an orange ribbon at the tip of the tail, pointy ears, white hair as snow, green eyes... enough of an inspiration for an only man to write about, coming from a single woman. Not a single woman, but Freya... she is like my muse. Yes, that's how they are called by. Before writing a play, it's said that Lord Avon evocated a muse to guide him for some inspiration. And to think many are inspired by his works nowadays... Those days. Atop plateaus, atop mountains... a mountain which's very high... you can't see the top unless you fly... How corny this sounds like. Well, those who fall in love do not think, like those who fell in comatose. But a writer must think, focuse, drink some water, it's raining... rain. It has been a time since Freya went to Burmecia. That's our homeland.
Maybe she misses home. The truth told... a heart on a load... Huh? That's stupid. A load of what? Well, these are only drafts, and I haven't wrote nothing with a pen yet. This entire book had been, but today they use writing machines instead of hands. The only hands used are the ones of those who built these machines. Soon there will be machines to build other machines, and the only job left will be the one to fix our minds. That's only a guess, though. Hold me... uh, not that I'm desperately lonely to say that. I mean, Freya and I, we sleep so near of each other, we see each other, and... do we talk to each other? For sure. I'm also writing this poem because I do not know what to say, but when it comes to not know how to begin a sentence, afraid that the word will be stuck there and you won't be able to change it when a better idea comes abruptely... slurp.
A bit of water for the throat. They say water floats to your mind, but for me it goes down. Geez... words aren't involuntary as the beat of a heart. They are like your breathe, but you can spend your entire life without speaking. Sure, you may not be able to hear your own voice, but anyone can see what you've did on paper. It can be a drawing, or a poem. I do not draw that well, and if I wanted to draw Freya, I'll do it on words. What else is more unnexpected than an artist's portrait? We ask how they did those paintings, and they have nothing to say. Dead artists do not speak, but I can hear them sing in other mouths and violins. And so there is the expected, a kind of routine compared to cleaning dishes after lunch. Like, there is the hero archetype who begins the story as a weakling, and ends strong after fighting against god, or some opposite archetype with the strenght compared to one.
Freya told me she fought against all kinds of monsters, beasts, machines, and survived them all. Yet, there are things she can't fight against. Not everything can be solved by fists for brains, or with a huge revelation at the end, with everyone smiling. But Freya doesn't only live for herself. That's why she became a Dragoon Knight. A symbol of hope, to be brought by the hopeless ones. To stay lit in the dark as a lamp oil... Dancing like a naked flame... good comparasion, sluuurp... A bit of water for the throat. They say water floats to your mind, but for me it goes down. Geez... words aren't involuntary as the beat of a heart. They are like your breathe, but you can spend your entire life without speaking. Sure, you may not be able to hear your own voice, but anyone can see what you've did on paper. It can be a drawing, or a poem. I do not draw that well, and if I wanted to draw Freya, I'll do it on words.
A head backwards... what the hell does that ever mean? Pain?... Dancing like a naked flame... upon a frame... hey, I've found a rhyme! Good, keep going. Frame... a man watching in a dark frame... no, that's too dark. Out of place, I mean. Just plain creepy, unless I change it. Next... Red as a cherry... hey, these words rhyme. But... cherry? I want to write with the innocence of a child. Think like one, but that seems impossible. Well, that's the way I see these words, and it may be different for Freya. Honey lips? This is getting nowhere. Come on, Fratley, take a look around. Don't listen to their voices alone. Men breathing in fumes... No squall for us to hinder... Dancing like a naked flame... A lady upon a crimson frame... She stepped on a splinter... To bled red perfume... Whoa, that's too intense. Bleeding like a red creeper... nah, that's too intense, even for Freya's kind.
Alright. Keep going and you'll reach there.
...
Orpheus knew how to calm down even the most ferocious beast and put men to a sleep with the melody of his sing. But when his wife Euridyce passed after being bitten by a poisonous snake, Orpheus could only sing about his lost love. Lost of himself and the humanity of before, he went to Hades in search of Eurydice. On the way, Orpheus brought his song and commotion for those tortured souls living on Hades. A cry for help, for the helpless ones. Even Hades's heart of iron felt shaken by the man's suffering. So Hades offered a chance to Orpheus get Eurydice back to the mortal world, with an only condition: Orpheus couldn't look back. Walking throught thick darkness in silence, soon as he reached an ounce of sunlight, Orpheus, due the intensity of his love felt, looked back to Euridyce. An instant of beauty, followed of a goodbye.
Orpheus could have convinced Hades to return Eurydice again after listening to his song again, but knowing that the gods wouldn't listen to his beseech, and knowing that he disobeyed the condition imposed, he spent the rest of his life singing for Eurydice, a soul lost forever by a fatal mistake.
...
Dancing like a naked flame
A lady upon a crimson frame
Catches slices of breath
A hand scribbles the sidewalk
It draws a sun of chalk
Rain washes it away
Men breathing in fumes
Climbing upon melted dunes
The scent of sweat over perfume
Not everything you do is a balloon
ns 15.158.61.20da2
