Corroding
This was one of those stories in which the whole world puts their faith in. Complete, absolute, total, immaculate, mine. Myths, legends, marvels of centuries to come and…
…know what was behind the door. She never wanted to imagine it. She did know, above all, with all of her naked form and her hurt heart that she could never leave and her hand would…
…shake the universe, the poetry that transpired in civilizations, the essence and moments of true life. Sensations of the real world in fiction, questioning of the linguistics, the semantics driven, the semiotics divine, and the pictograms of the brain, the paths of religion and everything that would be talked, thought of, painted, sculpted, and…
…written. Because that was all she could ever do but write and write. Food came through a small hole, drinks the same way, a bathroom on the corner stood, and a stiff, wooden bed, broken in two, was laid. She wrote on paper with ink and blood, with mud in fingers and along the rays of light that moved and illuminated through the cracks. She sweated in the days and in the nights her eyes…
…tears in oceans and rains, clouds that passed but forgot what it was they cast shadows on, ships in the night, poets of blood, warriors and nobles, pure and perfect, gold and silver in the hands of the few, moon that shone forever because nobody waited for days, civilizations on fire, poisoned, aborted, every child falling, every moment fading, the dirt on the hands, disgusting, dirty…
…putrid for she could not wash herself. Ticks and mites bit her head, cuts gained blackness, her fingers cracked and hurt from all the writing, the writing that she could not stop. They were collected every day, same time, and the order was always the same. More. And more she wrote because she did not want to think of anything else. She wrote a word, then another, then a letter followed, and a whimper hollow. She dreamt many times that she was not writing, but when awoken, she was still moving along, bleeding, and wounding through the paper lines. She licked her lips with every stroke. She felt thinner, weaker, sleepier as if of the worlds she had written she was only one of…
…them that had forgotten their true selves, the places that had sucked their souls sizzled, institutions of people against the people. The world stagnated, the winds stopped moving, diseases spread and everyone last of them, every single head, went…
…mad, mad, mad as she wrote because she needed to…
…finished, destroyed, tangled, buried, burned, crashed, slashed, devoured. They betrayed above all and…
…forgot what letter came next, what sentence could fit, what a point was in the land plotted, what a next thought was, what a measurement meant, what was the taste of her tongue and…
…where everything had lost its way. Perhaps, it had been destined to…
…feel like this, as if the room was swallowing her, her fingers left the hand refusing to write, her body collapsed into phonemes, and the lights through the cracks…
…faded…
