By: Radiohead
From: Kid A (2000)
The snowfields of Esto Gaza.
A distant place, near the end of the world. The compass's needle in hands freezes over, but still points to north. Fertile soil lies beneath frigid layers of snow, and permafrost. Trees are nowhere to be seem, replaced by a landscape of mountains of ice and carpets of moss upon rocks. Same for flowers. Small pretty... fascinating how they can sprout and grow anywhere. At the driest of the deserts, the coldests of the poles, And wherever there are flowers, there are also hummingbirds. In the middle of a snowstorm, she sees one, who quickly vanishes. However, she ain't there for the view, but in search of a shelter. Of heat. Suddenly, her thoughts come back to Fratley, and what they did to each other. He is suffering, she knows; but Fratley is strong, and his love for the world is even bigger than the feelings he nurtured for her.
For hundred times, she wondered what could had happened, if Fratley is in fact dead, their love slaughtered by a mean world, but as long as the dream is still alive, the weight of the wind can't prevent her from reaching the goal. Not even the tie of guts that claim for food, nor the terrifying dormancy of both feet. Invisible ants crawling up, devouring the dead skin, yet a thought remains. Many do, but one stands out the rest... today, Freya Crescent won't die. Not alone. Or poisoned by a bread covered in mold. No, poison doesn't know its poison. It doesn't infect itself, has many shapes, and one of them, alike a silhouette in the dark, is the one Freya seeks. For two years of a life meant to be fruitful, but instead, it's a life of poison, and the things he did to her head, and body. The things Fratley is supposedly doing to this world he cares about, but if he's in fact dead... he isn't, so Freya says to herself.
Only herself, and nobody else. She could speak, shout for its name, only to be overcome by piles of snow falling down Mt. Gulug, where once an entire civilization lived. Isolated from the rest of the world, a proper condition for organisms to adapt or remain as they were in past eras. The concept of love didn't existed. It was just the raw and primitive desire for flesh. A hunger for a stomach which's always empty, claiming for more, but that's not the only voice in her head. The head of a rat, echoing of a human voice, which in the end, turned out to be the same. And there it is... An unclimbable wall comes out the snow fields and the falling dots of white. They melt on her skin, which hides a heart. Now, what else is left to prove? There is no time for Freya to brood, only walk to keep a bit of warmth inside.
The burmecian touches the wall, almost plain like a mirror, yet she can't see herself, but the Dragoon she had been using to its favour, and so she does it again. Rats can climb walls if they happen to have a surface, and a Dragoon can jump higher in air, but it's risky when the sky seems to solidify and turn into a ceiling; a dome, like the olds used to say. No matter if Gaia is the center of it all, or plain like a map, or an eaten apple, whose holes are the sea and the worm the people who destroy this planet without knowing... destroying themselves as a cost. Dentations are left by sharp claws, small cracks appear on the wall, as Freya looks upon. She sees nothing, a bit of snow falls on her face, and melts once again. Her skin is boiling in fever, the nose is clogged, but she doesn't stop to rest. Due pressure, her ears are also clogged, and the lungs breath with the few curtain of air left.
None of this prevents Freya. These are mere setbacks, and how many she found on her way to the first of the setbacks: Fratley himself. Had not been for him, she wouldn't be here. Neither the Dragoon, which's only a tool to make things easier. Always had been. Yet, being a Dragoon wearing all the weight is also a kind of setback Freya needs to bare with. The many monsters in the way were nothing compared to herself. Sure, zombie whales, skeletons, giant birds, living cactus... there is something fantastic about them, yet no more impressing as it used to be. Some things just exist because they need to, while others ceased to exist in order to give place to a new kind. Sometimes, nothing seems to make any sense, even with a better look. That's how many feel about Freya, but in change, she feels nothing for them, but Fratley.
Once a stranger, an eccentric mentor, babbling about existence and the meaning of being a Dragoon in a place only a few have privilege and money enough... to a friend, a close one, almost a relative, yet cold like winter and the dormant hands... which became warm, alike its voice... and when Freya began to feel something she never had for someone other than herself, the himself inside herself couldn't live without the herself inside the him, or whoever Fratley was beneath skin. Then he left, because the nations are currently powering themselves, hungry and greedy for power, enough to destroy themselves. For a moment, Freya forgets that this world used to be fantastic, but unlike dreams, it never changes. If there is a thing about this world and dreams is that sometimes, both are forgotten.
It's getting dark, and Freya can't forget that unforgettable silhouette. Upon the gradient of a red twilight, the stars shine tonight, and Venus can be seem as well. The goddess of Love in ancient times, and like same, unreachable. Untouchable. Painful. Something hurt inside, outside... everything hurts. From the neck and toes, to the eyes and the soul, a mote in the sight, the knot of empty vessels tight. It's cold, really cold. Once ignored, but no more it can be. Pain is real, and only passion to hurt alike this, never Love in its ideal shape. Passion is the poison of this world. The claws and feet of the burmecian feel strange, as if they were being controlled outside the skin. The skin of a Dragoon doesn't feel nothing. Know, Freya, that your pain, anger, obstinacy are nothing against the harsh winds and the unmerciful wall.
Know... that you are nothing.
Despite the fall, and broken ribs stabbing internal organs, Freya isn't the kind who sits and cry.
This ain't hell, or the end.
Only of the world in which Love isn't there to be found.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
