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As The Tulips Lie

July 25th, 2010 (01:51 am)


I am falling, falling to nothing. The wind rips through me, tearing at my bones, my being and my soul.  I feel the crash as I hit the water, it pounds my chest.  The cold water licks my body, soaking my clothes, the salt stinging my eyes. I am trying to look up; I can only see the glare of the sun and the grey blur of the rocks. I am dizzy, my head hurts, I am flicking between darkness and light, my arms flail about me as pathetic as the weeds I’m sure are trying to steal me from this world. The waves send me crashing in to the rocks I can hear nothing but the cruel screech of the sea and my body crack amongst the rocks.

Why has no one come for me?

My wrists cracks, I scream...  water fills my lungs dragging out my mortality. I am dying. I am dying. I am....



Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream.

They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes, I do not think this is true. In death there is only death, the drag of what is human from what is not, and yes you remember things but this is not in flash it is a slow progression of thought as all that you are is pulled from your very brain. The electrics of your mortality seep through your skins and pour from you orifices turning you to nothing a complex and lifeless organic structure. The human body in life is  a complex and compelling structure filled with love and flamboyance  and motion , in death the body is building shattered by age, left empty widows dulled broken and cracked.

Death is more than a heart ceasing to beat, it is the tearing of mortality from the bindings of this world. I do not know if there is a God, or if some go to heaven or if some souls pass on and become other things. I just know I existed, and then I did not.


The sun hit the glass softly, my room was cast in to a certain slant of light. I heard movement. This had been my favourite time of day for years, every morning John would get up and stumble across the landing down the stair, he’d bring his book and read it whilst he drank a tar thick black coffee. I’d read it over his shoulder and then everyday he would rush out at 7:50, ten minutes later than he should. Leaving his book on the table, this was the part I loved most. 3 years ago, I spent every day reading the same page over and over,finally I can will the paper to turn itself, I swear it is the words that fill me with energy, that light up all I am a scattering of dust and conscious electrons in to a creature not with form, not yet, but with force. And the more I read, the more life seeps in to the air that creates me and sometimes in the most passionate of texts I can feel the sun tickling me or even gain the sensation that I am laying a finger on the page and I can feel its softness and threads beneath it. I know though, I am not because I am not.