El Titiritero's Shining Moon Memorial Head Trip
Feb 12, 2020 18:33:56 GMT -5
𝓔𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓜𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻 likes this
Post by anna on Feb 12, 2020 18:33:56 GMT -5
She laid there.
She laid there on a floor made of checkerboard bleeding out of every orifice her body ever had. And she didn’t care. Watching the survivors slip through a stargate (of all the fucking things to show up here!), she could barely raise her head to nod them on. She was being held and even though her sight grew dim, she knew who held her. It was a rarity in a mongrel’s life to ever learn what happened to the other parental unit, let alone bond with their strange funhouse mirror image of themselves.
Little brother. The one born and raised on Planet Earth with a normal life and his snark intact. A man with a chance. A man not fixed to this anymore.
They had spent the better part of an hour slugging it out. Both were already tired, already panting, already fought battles. But this latest and greatest one was a necessity. Brainwashed and deluded, she had pressed forward in her destruction all the while trying to rebel against it. iwillnotbethatmonstertodayohnoiwillnot. She was already leaking blood when she walked through the door and begged him to swing. It was laborious, slow, painful. And it distracted him from the real evil. In order for them to have a chance to live, the evil had to escape and somebody had to be laying here. He cradled her head. She mustered a smile and sang.
“Daizee, Daizee, gimmie yoor answer due…”
When the song was over, the lights went down. Her heart--ah, yes, only one back then!--slowed and stopped. Slowly, he let her go. His footprints sounded amongst the checkerboard, careful to avoid the lifeforce. He looked back once and then trudged into an uncertain future.
She was cleaning out the TARDIS when she found the mask. Such a silly little trinket of another failed attempt to be somebody else somewhere else. Not that people were fooled by the concept. Even speaking in another language, she was still very much a strange creature and when the unmasking happened, it was quietly ignored by the next week. There is no attachment to it--no love, no lasting memories, no real longing for yesteryear--and yet it’s a part of the narrative anyway. For were it not for this, all of that wouldn’t have come to pass. Or at least, that’s what one tends to tell oneself even if they damn well knew better.
The thing about trying to change a fixed point in time is that no matter what you do, it happens anyway. The circumstances can be altered but the moment comes with all of its brute force. Have you ever looked around at the world in these dire days and recognise that this was what was meant to happen? That maybe you’re not meant to stop the rot? That stopping the rot only makes it come right the fuck back? It’s a karmic boomerang. There was a time she flung it high and hard amongst the trees but it came back, ya see. And that’s the part that hurts the most. She risked everything she could and would’ve risked more. In the end, none of it made a difference and everyone else forgot.
There is a slight tremble in the hand that holds that mask. And a deep breath that follows that. On the marble floor you lay. On the marble floor, you stayed. Until it was time to fight again. Over and over and over and over and--
...hold up a sec, taking a drink.
To those few that have managed to live through what came after, the ones that slipped through the cracks, it’s a pipe dream. An illusion they remember until they try to grab a hold of it. It’s a mirage.
We.
Live.
There.
Tipping over from pillar to post, we see the signs. We know the score by now. The alcohol isn’t helping. If anything, the haze of it comes flowing back again. And we stare at our king, glorious king, with his squinty eyes and hair all a kimbo and he smiles at us because he knows. Ah, lord. He’s always known. Yaknow I say yaknow, self destruction is self obsession. I’m s o o b s e s s e d. i wanna talk about me, wanna talk about I. Let’s talk.
See, this one is a bit of a struggle because everytime we “talk” about things like these even if it ends up being in our own head, we lose. And fuck you. We don’t wanna lose. Losing for the losers and losing means getting fucked up the ass by destiny. So we keep it vague, you see. Because the truth is people don’t care about the truth and they don’t care about the history. How things are the way they are. But that’s okay, ya know. That’s fine. Because as it turns out? We really don’t care about you either. What’s a Willie Pete? Or a Cy Riddle? What’s an...other guy we can’t bother to look up right now?
Who are you in the depths of your uneasy brain? The foul insipidness. Who are you all really? Because we see you. Staring out there behind your screen ready for a soul to squeeze. We know what we are. A dream within a dream. But what are you? Really? You are the temporary, those meant to die in Solomon sands. The ones with the gravestones that say “GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN”. Ya know, the one’s that end up forgotten. Static cling. No more happy fairytales. No more yesterdays. Tell me a lie and say that you won’t go. Open my eyes and hoooooold me even though. I realise you have to go away…
Seriously, go away.
I can hear it. The strings replacing guitars.
EGO PASSION PLAY
CRUMBLING AWAY
THE BEATING OF A MILLION DRUMS
THE FIRE OF A MILLION GUNS
THE WARNING OF A MILLION SUNS
C I V I L I Z A T I O N
It’s the fading of the universe. We saw it in our dreams back when we dreamt about our death and the knowledge wherein. We have saved your lives more times than one can care to count. We have tried, really tried to give you everything you wanted. Peace. Comfort. A future. But nobody wants the future. It’s far, far too scary. So you throw it away for such petty bullshit.
Nobody dips their handkerchiefs in the blood of martyrs anymore. Nobody looks at the healing. They see the contamination as they themselves are contaminated. Which is perfectly fine when you only do it the once. Most martyrs are humans. Most martyrs die in the bloodletting. So they don’t see the rise of hope that they die for or the inevitable decay. We don’t have such a luxury. We fall asleep and wake up and we rise again. It erodes at one’s psyche after a while. Having a snap is inevitable.
Once upon a time, there were three immortal daughters. One was named Time. One was named Death. The eldest was Pain. They decided to play a game. They would pick champions and whose champion lasted the longest won. According to legend, Time picked hers and Death picked hers and they were destined to be rivals. Enemies. But funny thing. They never told the story about Pain’s champion. How it was chosen. How she took her time to make sure she picked the right candidate while the other two wasted their choices. Not like it matters. They’re all gone now. Death and Time and Pain. All gone. Finito. Went bye-bye. Took the midnight wormhole to...wherever freed personifications roam to. Only their shadows remain and those shadows are still SO powerful. But wouldn’t it be nice to know?
Who am we even talking to? There’s nobody there.
No more “dying” for the temporary. We live for ourselves.
She laid there on a floor made of checkerboard bleeding out of every orifice her body ever had. And she didn’t care. Watching the survivors slip through a stargate (of all the fucking things to show up here!), she could barely raise her head to nod them on. She was being held and even though her sight grew dim, she knew who held her. It was a rarity in a mongrel’s life to ever learn what happened to the other parental unit, let alone bond with their strange funhouse mirror image of themselves.
Little brother. The one born and raised on Planet Earth with a normal life and his snark intact. A man with a chance. A man not fixed to this anymore.
They had spent the better part of an hour slugging it out. Both were already tired, already panting, already fought battles. But this latest and greatest one was a necessity. Brainwashed and deluded, she had pressed forward in her destruction all the while trying to rebel against it. iwillnotbethatmonstertodayohnoiwillnot. She was already leaking blood when she walked through the door and begged him to swing. It was laborious, slow, painful. And it distracted him from the real evil. In order for them to have a chance to live, the evil had to escape and somebody had to be laying here. He cradled her head. She mustered a smile and sang.
“Daizee, Daizee, gimmie yoor answer due…”
When the song was over, the lights went down. Her heart--ah, yes, only one back then!--slowed and stopped. Slowly, he let her go. His footprints sounded amongst the checkerboard, careful to avoid the lifeforce. He looked back once and then trudged into an uncertain future.
She was cleaning out the TARDIS when she found the mask. Such a silly little trinket of another failed attempt to be somebody else somewhere else. Not that people were fooled by the concept. Even speaking in another language, she was still very much a strange creature and when the unmasking happened, it was quietly ignored by the next week. There is no attachment to it--no love, no lasting memories, no real longing for yesteryear--and yet it’s a part of the narrative anyway. For were it not for this, all of that wouldn’t have come to pass. Or at least, that’s what one tends to tell oneself even if they damn well knew better.
The thing about trying to change a fixed point in time is that no matter what you do, it happens anyway. The circumstances can be altered but the moment comes with all of its brute force. Have you ever looked around at the world in these dire days and recognise that this was what was meant to happen? That maybe you’re not meant to stop the rot? That stopping the rot only makes it come right the fuck back? It’s a karmic boomerang. There was a time she flung it high and hard amongst the trees but it came back, ya see. And that’s the part that hurts the most. She risked everything she could and would’ve risked more. In the end, none of it made a difference and everyone else forgot.
There is a slight tremble in the hand that holds that mask. And a deep breath that follows that. On the marble floor you lay. On the marble floor, you stayed. Until it was time to fight again. Over and over and over and over and--
...hold up a sec, taking a drink.
To those few that have managed to live through what came after, the ones that slipped through the cracks, it’s a pipe dream. An illusion they remember until they try to grab a hold of it. It’s a mirage.
We.
Live.
There.
Tipping over from pillar to post, we see the signs. We know the score by now. The alcohol isn’t helping. If anything, the haze of it comes flowing back again. And we stare at our king, glorious king, with his squinty eyes and hair all a kimbo and he smiles at us because he knows. Ah, lord. He’s always known. Yaknow I say yaknow, self destruction is self obsession. I’m s o o b s e s s e d. i wanna talk about me, wanna talk about I. Let’s talk.
See, this one is a bit of a struggle because everytime we “talk” about things like these even if it ends up being in our own head, we lose. And fuck you. We don’t wanna lose. Losing for the losers and losing means getting fucked up the ass by destiny. So we keep it vague, you see. Because the truth is people don’t care about the truth and they don’t care about the history. How things are the way they are. But that’s okay, ya know. That’s fine. Because as it turns out? We really don’t care about you either. What’s a Willie Pete? Or a Cy Riddle? What’s an...other guy we can’t bother to look up right now?
Who are you in the depths of your uneasy brain? The foul insipidness. Who are you all really? Because we see you. Staring out there behind your screen ready for a soul to squeeze. We know what we are. A dream within a dream. But what are you? Really? You are the temporary, those meant to die in Solomon sands. The ones with the gravestones that say “GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN”. Ya know, the one’s that end up forgotten. Static cling. No more happy fairytales. No more yesterdays. Tell me a lie and say that you won’t go. Open my eyes and hoooooold me even though. I realise you have to go away…
Seriously, go away.
I can hear it. The strings replacing guitars.
EGO PASSION PLAY
CRUMBLING AWAY
THE BEATING OF A MILLION DRUMS
THE FIRE OF A MILLION GUNS
THE WARNING OF A MILLION SUNS
C I V I L I Z A T I O N
It’s the fading of the universe. We saw it in our dreams back when we dreamt about our death and the knowledge wherein. We have saved your lives more times than one can care to count. We have tried, really tried to give you everything you wanted. Peace. Comfort. A future. But nobody wants the future. It’s far, far too scary. So you throw it away for such petty bullshit.
Nobody dips their handkerchiefs in the blood of martyrs anymore. Nobody looks at the healing. They see the contamination as they themselves are contaminated. Which is perfectly fine when you only do it the once. Most martyrs are humans. Most martyrs die in the bloodletting. So they don’t see the rise of hope that they die for or the inevitable decay. We don’t have such a luxury. We fall asleep and wake up and we rise again. It erodes at one’s psyche after a while. Having a snap is inevitable.
Once upon a time, there were three immortal daughters. One was named Time. One was named Death. The eldest was Pain. They decided to play a game. They would pick champions and whose champion lasted the longest won. According to legend, Time picked hers and Death picked hers and they were destined to be rivals. Enemies. But funny thing. They never told the story about Pain’s champion. How it was chosen. How she took her time to make sure she picked the right candidate while the other two wasted their choices. Not like it matters. They’re all gone now. Death and Time and Pain. All gone. Finito. Went bye-bye. Took the midnight wormhole to...wherever freed personifications roam to. Only their shadows remain and those shadows are still SO powerful. But wouldn’t it be nice to know?
Who am we even talking to? There’s nobody there.
No more “dying” for the temporary. We live for ourselves.