THE FLAME:
Under the shade of a sycamore tree, gilded by lillies & littered by love lay the likes of a little girl lost. Even in the company of the oncoming dark, her fingers white & worn, clutching to her chest a single empty jar, still she felt alone, for her heart lay with another. Beaten & bruised by time, it came to be that she did not recall, nor cared how long she had lay there, in the belly of the FountainHead.
In the dawn of coming morn, locallers of the surrounding neighbourhood cottages would revel in what, passed down through time in a game of chinese whispers in reverse, was just simply a young woman going for a simple morning walk, without the aid of her gown. Those who beared witness to this simple gesture knew better, but like most great stories of History, articulation became procrastination, a lazy fellow is he, Detail. Truth is subjective but pain is forever, and permanence often holds a genetic semblance of raw fact.
The fact was that she could hardly walk, let alone talk. But walk she did, with a limp that still contained some pride, the remnants of her lovely white slip tattered & torn falling behind her as she did her best to supress a smile that would have been considered ludicrous, almost sardonic. For in her hands was a plain glass jar, and in her jar was a plain brown Moth. One of those hands covered the top like a lid, the other nursing the bottom, creating in her sillouhette a heiroglyph of sorts. She cared not for eyes or prying thighs, in the wake of the morn. Only for the moth which she thought was lost, but now was hers.
Sanctuary was a cottage at the end of Steinway Street, on the corner of Parkes & Lane. Behest to her at the sudden death of her beloved mother Isabelle, Thracius now called this place Home. Home was a fireplace filled with lies, Home was a purple velvet couch & a white chandelier. Home was a bathroom adorned on every angle by beloved framed cats. The pets of past lives.
She placed the jar upon the mantel, adorned and abridged by other peculiars that now made way for the ascendor to the crown of glory and attention. Hesitant as she was to leave sight of her love, her well worn compulsions drew her to the porcelain vanity, under which she wringed and wrangeld hands that had held hope, smothering them in a thick layer of lanolin under the lamp light of the morn. At the hands she did not stop, for this ritual of cleansing was beyond her will, the possesive automation welcomed by her tired mind. Thracius ran a bath, her thoughts ran a mile a minute, though the calmness of her actions showed otherwise. The warm water slipped over her gaunt naked body like the welcoming embrace of sleep. Soil & sins ran through her open pores, draining her of the essence and fuel that had kept her running for endless days past.
Subject once again to static air time, Thracius awoke with a startle in the dark, immersed in black ice water, uncontrollably shivering but pushed forward by a single purpose. She clambered out of the tub, losing her footing and meeting the ground with a shattering force, her shoulder and forearm kissing the cold tiles. In her mind she created a pain debt, she would allow herself the things she desired now and deal with the hurt & the ache later. Naked, beaten, shivering but in a glorious blaze of love and desperation, Thracius felt her way through the contents of her own home, now painted, dripping in a sickly black, time & turmoil having laid waste to the spark and warmth of the remaining gas lamps. Her hands happened hastily upon a small book of wooden matches, with only one stick left. Breathing in, and steadying herself, she pushed the carved wood carefully across the gauzed surface, a smile lighting across her face at the same speed and warmth of the small vulnerable flame.
There by the thatched light of the wooden winter night, in the safety of captivity, was her love, safe for now, unharmed & unspoilt by the bitter rotten world that lay outside the French double doors that framed her house. Bathed in an increasingly intense glow The Moth perched calmly in its cage, not moving, nor flapping. A lightning bolt of terror steeled through Thraciuss spine as her What Ifs acidicly burnt the nerve endings in her fingers and forced upon her to poke and prod the jar, ironically, unintentionally disturbing and harming the insect for the sake of checking the validity of its health. The Moth fluttered momentarily, and settled again, yet this seemed enough for the girl. As the terror in her blood slowly dulled and died away, the pricklings of reality settled in when she caught herself unawares and without underwear, only reminded by her increasingly vibrating upper torso, not usually feigned or affected by what the outside world ever thought, Thracius found it surprising to be filled with humility within the confines of her own home. Perhaps she did not want her Love to see her like this. As such, she slipped into a slip, slid under the soft covers of her single bed and allowed the ship of sleep to carry her away, no longer anchored by fear.
Next to her beloved insectual creature, Sleep was her greatest desire, admiration and love. Though it did not come often as the creepy catacombs and callings of the cold light of the world oft came calling, when she allowed herself, Thracius would develop the transition of falling asleep akin to making love. A procedure of great fondness & joy that one could look forward to every night. Though come every night, it did not. So, such as long distance lovers or ones kept apart by war, natural disasters or time itself, when indeed time and space aligned and allowed her the privilege of reuniting with her long lost love, it became a long, passionate heated affair that would blaze and burn for days on end as if to make up for time lost. As such, it was not for another forty two hours that Thracius would return to the world of the waken as the strong rough, yet tender arms of Sleep held tight around her beautiful but beaten body.
When the sly slippery arms of sleep had done away with the young supple siren in the sullen slip, the girl found herself once again in that transition stage in between two planes of existence. In a state of sleep paralysis, her mind in the world of the waken, but her muscles still fastened down by the world of sleep, that thunderous explosion of fear exploded through her wirings giving her body a kickstart. Her body twitched, writhed and came to waking life. A train of thought tumbled through the tracks of her mind as she felt pulled apart by Horses, wondering how long she would felt torn between the callings of her two loves. When with one, she missed the other. When with the other she missed another. An epiphany of cold pure silver light struck her in the temples, in the dawn of the coming morn. Could she have her Moth & eat it too? Could she have her Sleep and feed it too? Time was taking its toll on Thraciuss body, mind and soul. She no longer wished to be the vessel, bleeding through the cuts and holes in time and space, tumbling down the rabbit hole that fed as a gateway between the innumerable planes of existence that moved simultaneously, sideways to one another. She no longer cared if she were a chosen one, a martyr for a messenger, or simply a dirty, used tool layed to waste in the back of the work shed of life. She wanted everything in its place, and all at once.
Young Gaels bare listless foot struck the cold wooden planks that formed the foundation of her home. She swam through the cold crisp air, the fogginess of sleep still hung over her like a hard earned stain on the kitchen tiles that had simply been given up on and was now just a part of the furniture. Though she did not like many of her attributes, she had come to terms with them, made friends with the enemies inside her head. Thracius pushed through the invisible thickness like walking through a field of barley, stepping on crunchy autumnal leaves that had made themselves at home, entering swiftly after she had. Now when something is missing one never realises until one goes looking for it. But the empty jar was a blinding array of light amongst the concreted permanence of the rest of her belongings.
Thracius spun on golden heel, the balls of her feet pushing against the tide of the morning, through the now-open back door and into the amber light of the morn. Her sometimes green eyes flashed a protective silver in the coming of the violet rays as she threw a slender guarded arm across her brow, the insides of her eyelids dancing and throbbing with a cardiovascular rythymn. Slowly she opened her eyes and scanned the flowerbed for her love. Perched upon a delicate lilystalk lay the love of her long, lost life. A simple brown moth fluttered and flustered seemingly out of place in the scheme of things, in the laylow of the flowerbed. In one swift yet abnormally delicate motion the girl crouched and swept the moth into the cradle of her long fingers and rushed into the safety of home once more.
Little Thracius Gael sat, she watched & waited for the paint to dry as the light outside began to die. The little round dots, the curve of her brush delicately caressing but hesitant to let go of the translucent liquid with which it formed a bond. With this tool in hand, she felt a great sense of not only power, but belonging. The things of which she could not control gained a new sense of perspective under the slight wooden grip. A look in her eyes of which could not exactly be called a look. For in fact she was not looking but more lacking, her green, sometimes grey eyes lost in a dissasociative holiday. They call this Automation, Thracius calls this Destiny. Loosening the grip of her wooden-wand, she stepped backwards to gain an understanding of what lay before her. The moth lay perfectly still, spread and bound by bonding glue, perched, pressed & pinned upon a piece of wood, framed by gold.
She removed the empty jar from upon the mantel, placing in its stead the steep, stern but soft comfort of the permanently placed and pointless peculiar, now lit from either side by two strong tall thick wax candles. From here she could always keep an eye on her Love, shackled by the bonds of not only love but now polyadhesive. Her eyes never leaving the plank of poised significance, she stepped gracefully backwards and lay her body in the adjacent thatched rocking chair, surrounded by hand sewn cushions and inherited afghans. The joints of her body naturally moving into a comfortable place as automatically as a guitarists hands form the chords they know so well. Her two loves once torn now tied together in a torrent of tumultuous transit. At once everything was at one. Sleeps familiar arms reached from beyond the curtain once more
A waterfall of golden light and warmth moved through Thraciuss body that was well beyond any amount of extremity shown to her before by the forces of this world. Am I awake? She thought or am I just dead. Or perhaps somewhere in between She felt the horses pulling the wooden cart of her body in different directions once more, a tug of war between the strong arm of sleep and this sudden overwhelming heat that bathed her body. Thracius opened her eyes. From the blackness of bed-time to a blazing wall of red through which nothing could be seen but the aforementioned, and back to black again. She felt no more, for after this colour wheel came the crashing call of absence. The Moth now One with The Flame.
And so it came to be that Dear Little Thracius Gael was sooten, sitting in The Fountainhead within Hydra Park, with a small, now empty, glass jar held protectively between her hands but without a home or a heart.
Under the shade of a sycamore tree, gilded by lillies & littered by love lay the likes of a little girl lost. Even in the company of the oncoming dark, her fingers white & worn, clutching to her chest a single empty jar, still she felt alone, for her heart lay with another. Beaten & bruised by time, it came to be that she did not recall, nor cared how long she had lay there, in the belly of the FountainHead.
In the dawn of coming morn, locallers of the surrounding neighbourhood cottages would revel in what, passed down through time in a game of chinese whispers in reverse, was just simply a young woman going for a simple morning walk, without the aid of her gown. Those who beared witness to this simple gesture knew better, but like most great stories of History, articulation became procrastination, a lazy fellow is he, Detail. Truth is subjective but pain is forever, and permanence often holds a genetic semblance of raw fact.
The fact was that she could hardly walk, let alone talk. But walk she did, with a limp that still contained some pride, the remnants of her lovely white slip tattered & torn falling behind her as she did her best to supress a smile that would have been considered ludicrous, almost sardonic. For in her hands was a plain glass jar, and in her jar was a plain brown Moth. One of those hands covered the top like a lid, the other nursing the bottom, creating in her sillouhette a heiroglyph of sorts. She cared not for eyes or prying thighs, in the wake of the morn. Only for the moth which she thought was lost, but now was hers.
Sanctuary was a cottage at the end of Steinway Street, on the corner of Parkes & Lane. Behest to her at the sudden death of her beloved mother Isabelle, Thracius now called this place Home. Home was a fireplace filled with lies, Home was a purple velvet couch & a white chandelier. Home was a bathroom adorned on every angle by beloved framed cats. The pets of past lives.
She placed the jar upon the mantel, adorned and abridged by other peculiars that now made way for the ascendor to the crown of glory and attention. Hesitant as she was to leave sight of her love, her well worn compulsions drew her to the porcelain vanity, under which she wringed and wrangeld hands that had held hope, smothering them in a thick layer of lanolin under the lamp light of the morn. At the hands she did not stop, for this ritual of cleansing was beyond her will, the possesive automation welcomed by her tired mind. Thracius ran a bath, her thoughts ran a mile a minute, though the calmness of her actions showed otherwise. The warm water slipped over her gaunt naked body like the welcoming embrace of sleep. Soil & sins ran through her open pores, draining her of the essence and fuel that had kept her running for endless days past.
Subject once again to static air time, Thracius awoke with a startle in the dark, immersed in black ice water, uncontrollably shivering but pushed forward by a single purpose. She clambered out of the tub, losing her footing and meeting the ground with a shattering force, her shoulder and forearm kissing the cold tiles. In her mind she created a pain debt, she would allow herself the things she desired now and deal with the hurt & the ache later. Naked, beaten, shivering but in a glorious blaze of love and desperation, Thracius felt her way through the contents of her own home, now painted, dripping in a sickly black, time & turmoil having laid waste to the spark and warmth of the remaining gas lamps. Her hands happened hastily upon a small book of wooden matches, with only one stick left. Breathing in, and steadying herself, she pushed the carved wood carefully across the gauzed surface, a smile lighting across her face at the same speed and warmth of the small vulnerable flame.
There by the thatched light of the wooden winter night, in the safety of captivity, was her love, safe for now, unharmed & unspoilt by the bitter rotten world that lay outside the French double doors that framed her house. Bathed in an increasingly intense glow The Moth perched calmly in its cage, not moving, nor flapping. A lightning bolt of terror steeled through Thraciuss spine as her What Ifs acidicly burnt the nerve endings in her fingers and forced upon her to poke and prod the jar, ironically, unintentionally disturbing and harming the insect for the sake of checking the validity of its health. The Moth fluttered momentarily, and settled again, yet this seemed enough for the girl. As the terror in her blood slowly dulled and died away, the pricklings of reality settled in when she caught herself unawares and without underwear, only reminded by her increasingly vibrating upper torso, not usually feigned or affected by what the outside world ever thought, Thracius found it surprising to be filled with humility within the confines of her own home. Perhaps she did not want her Love to see her like this. As such, she slipped into a slip, slid under the soft covers of her single bed and allowed the ship of sleep to carry her away, no longer anchored by fear.
Next to her beloved insectual creature, Sleep was her greatest desire, admiration and love. Though it did not come often as the creepy catacombs and callings of the cold light of the world oft came calling, when she allowed herself, Thracius would develop the transition of falling asleep akin to making love. A procedure of great fondness & joy that one could look forward to every night. Though come every night, it did not. So, such as long distance lovers or ones kept apart by war, natural disasters or time itself, when indeed time and space aligned and allowed her the privilege of reuniting with her long lost love, it became a long, passionate heated affair that would blaze and burn for days on end as if to make up for time lost. As such, it was not for another forty two hours that Thracius would return to the world of the waken as the strong rough, yet tender arms of Sleep held tight around her beautiful but beaten body.
When the sly slippery arms of sleep had done away with the young supple siren in the sullen slip, the girl found herself once again in that transition stage in between two planes of existence. In a state of sleep paralysis, her mind in the world of the waken, but her muscles still fastened down by the world of sleep, that thunderous explosion of fear exploded through her wirings giving her body a kickstart. Her body twitched, writhed and came to waking life. A train of thought tumbled through the tracks of her mind as she felt pulled apart by Horses, wondering how long she would felt torn between the callings of her two loves. When with one, she missed the other. When with the other she missed another. An epiphany of cold pure silver light struck her in the temples, in the dawn of the coming morn. Could she have her Moth & eat it too? Could she have her Sleep and feed it too? Time was taking its toll on Thraciuss body, mind and soul. She no longer wished to be the vessel, bleeding through the cuts and holes in time and space, tumbling down the rabbit hole that fed as a gateway between the innumerable planes of existence that moved simultaneously, sideways to one another. She no longer cared if she were a chosen one, a martyr for a messenger, or simply a dirty, used tool layed to waste in the back of the work shed of life. She wanted everything in its place, and all at once.
Young Gaels bare listless foot struck the cold wooden planks that formed the foundation of her home. She swam through the cold crisp air, the fogginess of sleep still hung over her like a hard earned stain on the kitchen tiles that had simply been given up on and was now just a part of the furniture. Though she did not like many of her attributes, she had come to terms with them, made friends with the enemies inside her head. Thracius pushed through the invisible thickness like walking through a field of barley, stepping on crunchy autumnal leaves that had made themselves at home, entering swiftly after she had. Now when something is missing one never realises until one goes looking for it. But the empty jar was a blinding array of light amongst the concreted permanence of the rest of her belongings.
Thracius spun on golden heel, the balls of her feet pushing against the tide of the morning, through the now-open back door and into the amber light of the morn. Her sometimes green eyes flashed a protective silver in the coming of the violet rays as she threw a slender guarded arm across her brow, the insides of her eyelids dancing and throbbing with a cardiovascular rythymn. Slowly she opened her eyes and scanned the flowerbed for her love. Perched upon a delicate lilystalk lay the love of her long, lost life. A simple brown moth fluttered and flustered seemingly out of place in the scheme of things, in the laylow of the flowerbed. In one swift yet abnormally delicate motion the girl crouched and swept the moth into the cradle of her long fingers and rushed into the safety of home once more.
Little Thracius Gael sat, she watched & waited for the paint to dry as the light outside began to die. The little round dots, the curve of her brush delicately caressing but hesitant to let go of the translucent liquid with which it formed a bond. With this tool in hand, she felt a great sense of not only power, but belonging. The things of which she could not control gained a new sense of perspective under the slight wooden grip. A look in her eyes of which could not exactly be called a look. For in fact she was not looking but more lacking, her green, sometimes grey eyes lost in a dissasociative holiday. They call this Automation, Thracius calls this Destiny. Loosening the grip of her wooden-wand, she stepped backwards to gain an understanding of what lay before her. The moth lay perfectly still, spread and bound by bonding glue, perched, pressed & pinned upon a piece of wood, framed by gold.
She removed the empty jar from upon the mantel, placing in its stead the steep, stern but soft comfort of the permanently placed and pointless peculiar, now lit from either side by two strong tall thick wax candles. From here she could always keep an eye on her Love, shackled by the bonds of not only love but now polyadhesive. Her eyes never leaving the plank of poised significance, she stepped gracefully backwards and lay her body in the adjacent thatched rocking chair, surrounded by hand sewn cushions and inherited afghans. The joints of her body naturally moving into a comfortable place as automatically as a guitarists hands form the chords they know so well. Her two loves once torn now tied together in a torrent of tumultuous transit. At once everything was at one. Sleeps familiar arms reached from beyond the curtain once more
A waterfall of golden light and warmth moved through Thraciuss body that was well beyond any amount of extremity shown to her before by the forces of this world. Am I awake? She thought or am I just dead. Or perhaps somewhere in between She felt the horses pulling the wooden cart of her body in different directions once more, a tug of war between the strong arm of sleep and this sudden overwhelming heat that bathed her body. Thracius opened her eyes. From the blackness of bed-time to a blazing wall of red through which nothing could be seen but the aforementioned, and back to black again. She felt no more, for after this colour wheel came the crashing call of absence. The Moth now One with The Flame.
And so it came to be that Dear Little Thracius Gael was sooten, sitting in The Fountainhead within Hydra Park, with a small, now empty, glass jar held protectively between her hands but without a home or a heart.