Simple daily encounters with arising demons are enough to tip It over the edge. Sparkling sea blue iris’s swallowed by a sea of jet black matter, time in no way close to the finish line. Sure, those snarling sharks within the sky eyes ponder of such sadness, ponder to why It feels such sadness on days of yellow. Why don’t these eyes reflect the magma ball of fire amongst the clouds? The soaring birds flying amongst these pieces of ascending cotton candy which the dreamy airplanes pierce through on a direct collision course. Complicated metaphors are honestly unnecessary. Simplicity is more appealing to the naked eye. But these demons enhance on complication. Swallow up simplicity and projectile vomit. Blending vile viscous metaphors into the air consisting now of particles of complexity, misunderstanding and what could be perceived as utter madness. Such screaming literature deafening its ears. An eternal consistent flat note exists within its ear canals, deflating a once constructed brain and eradicating revolving brain cells. That is what complexity can exist as. That is how its demons want to present its host as.
Metaphors are signs of complexity
It has never experienced this landscape. This horizon of black and grey. Grey and black. Trees of ash, lakes of nickel, grass projecting marengo, skies leaking gunmetal. Is It looking through a hound’s eyes? Are its demons dogs? Laughable. It would make more sense to be haunted by a phantom, not man’s best friend. After centuries of the wolf’s evolution to domesticated noblemen, it would not dare to hiss and pierce the skin of his master. No it cannot be. It’s just the monochrome tinted glasses. Or a concoction of greys staining windows that have been sewn to the side of its brain and soldered onto every delicate part of its shark infested eyes. This surrounding is new; this landscape is certainly not archaic to It. It stumbles over matte rocks, falls into pools of expanding galaxies, becoming wet with constellations and moonchildren all over its back and dripping down its face. Fishes are intertwining shooting stars; leaping frogs are existing meteors, small bubbles created by slight movement are floating thoughts, drifting until the end of time and long after amongst the never ending desert of black out there. It launches out of this galaxy, shaking the liquid stars from its arms, its legs, its face, and progresses into a forest. Pushing past outstretched arms, treading on fingernails. Wait no. They’re branches and leaves. Yet these ‘branches’ are reaching out to It. Violently yanking on its clothes, slicing at its skin, pulling its hair, slitting its eyes. Collapsing due to the pushing and shoving. In a new world, a new universe overflowing with noise.
Sound. Sonic booms of shouts. Screams. Screams. Violence. Hatred.
What is this new world? Loud roars ricochet against planets like a child exclaiming nonsense into an outstretched tunnel. These waves of sound bouncing from planets, meteors, those shooting stars, on a redirected collision course after colliding with planes and clouds in the sky, creating a crater in this new world. Metaphors made of acid rain from those clouds of candyfloss, melting its fingers, its skin, its own two feet that could once support a functioning mechanism, but now simply a reminiscent memory of this broken clockwork. A once functioning organism now a pile of grey. A pile of black. Black and grey.
Can It rip that grey tinted glass from its face? Saw it off or unpick the barbed wire threads? What if It just sawed its entire face off? Without attached limbs how on this Earth would it be possible? These acid ridden limbs do not know Harry Houdini, there are no such planned escapes for this fact of life.
So. What now? The End. The story concludes. Final scene. Cut to credits. The start and the painful conclusion to this new place. This new world of complication. No green can spark through this landscape of pure black. No longer grey. Pure coal, empty black. Gone.
Drifting in pure emptiness. It is like that plane, no longer on auto pilot nor steered by a crew, drifting freely across the vast Milky Way. Isolation within suffocating darkness. Silence.
A hand. A parted hand. A hand of yellow, shining within its world with an absence of light. What is this hand? What is its purpose? But yet another hand appears, then a full figure… Holding a golden needle and thread. A new and fresh piercing feeling caresses its skin. Sensation? It can feel again? Thread by thread, stitch by stitch, a Frankenstein-like angel now standing. Like watercolour soaring up a page of water, aiding an artist in its quest for a masterpiece, colours of yellow swirls from fingertips to elbows, toes to hips. Reviving dead veins, resuscitating a once desolate heart, transforming such an organ into a beating drum. Inflating its brain, gifting It with structured thought. With one blow, this golden figure throws It into their arms, causing a collision of colour. Tulip skirts emerging by the side of the lake, living and breathing waters welcoming kaleidoscopic fish, skies mimicking waters, forests of luscious green and vibrant roses of luxury intertwine with branches, its thorns left behind. God could only witness this miracle with an ocean in his ducts.
Metaphors are signs of complexity. Complexity is a curse. Have I already said that before? I cannot remember. My brain cannot comprehend past lectures and the tinted glass smog has left my eyes, those swarming sharks not far behind, carrying those piercing barbed wires in their jaws.
I only see colour.
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