Spiegel

The body that houses us wary Multitudes does not speak when she is spoken to. There is nothing to say. Even the majority of us are silent. We cannot even see those who speak. There is a shadow on the wall and it is ours. It wraps its arms around us

(all of us)

and gives kisses to our lips.

As of right now, we are that figure sitting at the corner of the bar. Our insides tingle with fizz from the Jack and Coke we sip out of. We are secretly a movement, listening to the Revelations of St. Coltrane. Because it strikes our fancy at this moment. We could be here for the next week. We could be here for only a few seconds. Not that long ago, we were in a pancake making contest. Not long before that, we were trying to kill off Lisa Seldon to keep our stranglehold on a title belt built on blood. Some people see that as a contradiction.

and some people are stupid.

He watches us, you know. Our beloved. He is everywhere. We are never as far away as the humans may think. He's been watching us since the first moment he saw us, always keeping himself close but never to the point of stifling us. Never, never. His heart is too kind for that. And there are times like tonight where we are awash in his love. Soaking in it. It is infinitely more intoxicating than any drink and even when we stumble, it's with grace.

Vɛrin speaks.

Jackyjackyjackyjacky.

Over and over. The plusating of the heartsbeat thunders our way home. And all the vessel can do is sit there and ride this whole thing out. I am but a humble writer and all I want is a surfboard because we should be preparing for other things. Allegedly important things. But there he goes again in the shade watching every move and non-move we make and we can feel it and the room is tilting and there is a revelation.



________

Let us get to the heart of the matter for once, shall we? That's just the kind we are today.

Indi Rhyder.

Who the fuck are you, really?

No, honestly. Most see you as some spaced out neo-hippie. Doggo, for reasons we will never fully understand, sees you as one of us. A "weaverkin" in the language of the pack he was raised in. Many see you as a failure after losing your belt to Miles Lucky. And there is some sort of strange in your eyes that says you're something else entirely. It could be lying though. Your insides can easily lie.

Who are you now as we're writing this sentence to you?

Who are you when the lights come on?

Who are you when the stars go out?

Important questions.

Because, see, people can change. They can. It just takes a lot of deep conversations with everything you are over subjects you never really thought of before. Not just the parts you like or the parts you want to keep. Your weaknesses. Your shadows. It's not all sunshine and glory all the time. Sometimes it's the rain and the pain.

But then again, you would scratch that and reverse it. That's what you tend to show. And you could ask the same questions. Like everything else, it's a matter of perspective.

________

I claim your skin as my own and there's a rush to it.

There are markings made and they are mine. There are markings you make and they are also mine. And everything that is mine is yours. That is devotion. That is the heart of the matter. That is the pulse of civilization. The past and the murky depths are only the heartsbeat away. So close to taste and yet to many, so damned far away.

We are many but not the many.

I, a humble writer, do not know if the letter I'm writing makes sense. Behold, I am caught in the current along with the rest of our motley crew. The vessel begins to put on one of his suits. Firebug lights a cigarette while the Prime makes it a habit to not inhale the smoke. Our dog makes it a point to woof at these situations. One of us without a name smiles like a youth and pets the black furry thing atop his head. Tails wag.

Vɛrin dances in several ways. Some would make your mother blush.

________

We should feel something here. We realise that.

We started our Union Playground career by gnashing our teeth at you, after all. We still do on occasion. He-Who-Hates sees you as the fraud. The Galactic Princess doing generic strange girl things, covered in glitter for no damned reason and calling everyone her bud. And Dodobird would've played with you, still can maybe when the night is late. We should be bitter. We should be bitter that we were on a losing streak while you rose to the degree of champion, especially when we've become The Challenge in Yamashi and our tenure here was thrown in our face by our alleged best friend. It should make the blood boil and we are trying, honest injun. We are trying to come up with a passionate little note that decries you as imposter and us as the one true God.

But fuck's sake, haven't we heard it all before? From Miles and the chickenman and nearly everybody else that's ever fought against you. And no half-assed rehash from any of us is going to hammer it home any farther.

The truth is no matter how much we try, no matter how much we want this note to blister your skin, we (mostly) cannot feel either love nor hate for you. We barely remember you exist. We feel nothing for your substance. We see nothing there. And we aren't exactly questioning why.

As insane as it sounds, this feels like we've seen it before. Seen it to the point where people like you have virtually lost all meaning. Indi Rhyder is RC Cola and Chinese bootlegs. And to many, this is a blind spot. They underestimate and it's simple to work that against them with a bit of know-how.

The fact that we can say that means it's not our blind spot. We've used those tactics enough ourself.

________

Ivories tinkle in the next room as he tries to play a song. His head is every bit as mad as mine, just in a different fashion, you see. As children, I buried myself in vermillion rags while he dreamt of neon dipped decades and neither one of us could've thought that life would get any worse until it did. Or that it would get any better until it did.

It got worse because of the people around us.

It got better because we found each other.

We look at the vessel in the mirror. The suit is a bit too big, but we can manage it. Strangely, we even like it. It somehow feels...right.

He would rather us not wear anything but even he admits it's cute.

________

We want the thing that wiggles in your brain. We want the stardust. We want the soul that is allegedly a child of the universe. And to be honest, that might not even be enough. Because the scope is so limited. You only see one all embracing 'verse. We see more.

Yet we still wish to see.

We want to see behind all that flesh and bone. Are we wrong? Are you more than the nothing you show? Is there something? We want to see because, quite honestly, we want to give even the smallest amount of fucks.

About you. About the Playground.

Sure, we fight people that we normally wouldn't. But then there's a turning of the page. And half of them are gone. And we're still here. We made a promise to ourselves to be the very best and we hate being this complacent. We hate being this uninspired. We hate being this fucking bored. It's rather unbecoming of a muse to not be an artist herself.

The alternative is we do all this damned work ourself. What a mess that would be, eh?

________

The vessel sits on a porch as Firebug flicks ashes. Is the sun rising or falling? It's very much at that point where there's no telling. The heartsbeat thunders on along with the drum fills in our skull.

In order to shape reality to your will, one must ride through the vibes on any given moment. You must be Sistine Chapel and Piss Christ all at once. The conflict must be legendary. The merging must be disastrous. It makes for better television that way.

Those that see the grotesque of cracks will miss the beauty.