siren_echoes

Behind the whispering feathers of ravens, the shadow-thick fur of wolves, you breathe. Eye of a dragon, unblinking, settles on the horizon. The mists of ancient memory obscure you, turn you to dream. The raven calls as we stumble through time, watching the spinning cycles and moons and stars and blood red flame consuming everything, the ashes that bloom and grow and awake to reach for the sun. Ancient and young, we are, following paths untread, cloaked in strange humanity within an unfamiliar world. Paths must eventually re-converge… some day…. I pray.

Here I see him, crouched lithely, all sinewy grace and power upon the mossy stone, claws clutching, wings stretched slightly for balance. He slowly turns his head toward me as I approach, tilting it slightly as a black mane falls in a gentle tumble across his serpentine neck, emerald eyes flaring with a recognition I don't understand.

I think that I am disturbing his solitary reverie, so I apologize and turn to leave. He speaks to my mind, a blend of words and images and intense sensation, my language and his, asking me to stay.

Whispered throughout the school is a story of a man from long ago who could turn into a dragon, who lost his true love. Upon her death, he took on the shape of his beast, and roamed the mountains in solitude, soon forgetting he ever walked upon two legs.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop, and everybody goes ahh..."
Jack Kerouac from On the Road

I woke up gently, the soft light of early morning dancing across the surface of my eyelids. The memory of last night seeped into my bones, and my stomach gave a little flutter as I turned my head to look beside me, though past experience told me what I would find. He always meticulously made up his side of the bed before he left, pillows plumped under the flowered bedspread which was folded back with its cotton sheet to accommodate my own slight form. He left no trace, ever. I had stopped questioning it long ago.

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A fey glint dances in my eyes when I look in a mirror, the caged soul longing for freedom, for wildness. I long for endless stretches of wooded mountains, the ageless and primal roar of the ocean. I want to run with the deer and the wolves, my feet light and swift, my hair tangled with snagged leaves and briars as it streams out behind me. I want to sing, not a tame melody, but the primal, indefinably magnificant and ragged wailing note of creation that can only be ripped from one's deepest soul, as my body writhes, dips, and spins, undulating in that ancient dance that causes walls to crumble, sleepers to awaken, old life to take that first lung-filling breath of rebirth. Ancient trees slumbering in their forgotten, mist-shrouded woods begin to stir, their branches and leaves rustling in whispers to each other, their stout bodies stretching and sighing as they begin to become aware once again. I spread my arms over my head like wings unfolding, and slowly dissipate like sand caught in the wind, becoming the wind, becoming the rain, becoming the wail of the ocean, the whisper of the trees, the beating heart of the earth, the silver veins of the moon, the distant glimmer of a star that becomes a raging inferno of passion deeper than any human body can withstand.

All right, my mother is evidently going to be on NBC's the Today Show tomorrow... *blinks*
They called just now and will be coming out for an interview around five or six... which seems strange to me, as short notice as it is, but I guess they're using local reporters from the station in town for the interview.

It's a story about a little girl with problems like David's, whose parents have opted to get treatments to keep her body small and childlike. They want to interview my mother to get a contrasting view, of what kind of care an adult with similar disabilities would require, and the issues associated with it.

The Rift: a work in progress. Still have a lot to do on it, but here's a glimpse :)

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An echo sings in my mind like shards of ice through the veins. "Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice, shame on me..." For shame, for shame. My blackened corpse still dances in the furnace flame.

Do I long for death? Death is but a doorway. I would sleep, to dream of wounds torn anew and scorched souls writhing against the carnage of a rent sky, laughing and laughing and laughing because they have no tears left to cry.

No.

Oblivion. I long for oblivion.

A thousand lifetimes from now, will we catch shimmering and indistinct glimpses of towering buildings of glass and steel that catch the light of the sun during the day and glow with their own luminescence at night? Will we remember the swiftly moving and softly purring creatures that let us ride within safety at incredible speeds, taking us on twenty minute journies that would ordinarily take hours? Will we remember being able to fly through the clouds in huge machines that seem to us to defy the laws of nature? Will we call it magic? Will we forget the tensions, the isolation, the self-centeredness of the world around us? Will we forget the death of the forests, the poisoning of the waters, the murder of millions? Will we long for times long lost, and detest the time that has been given to us?

Which is more real?

The memory of a dream, or the dream itself?