#if dream buffet has no fans then im dead | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fadedstarlight · 6 years ago

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the stars will sing for you, one day. hope is what dreamers rely upon, so don’t lose it. even if it means the end of everything you know.

a crumpled tee shirt, plastered directly to her face. an exhausted arm brushes it aside with a disgruntled moan, the moan of someone who was having a terribly nice dream and was woken up by the most inconsiderate rays of morning grace. thanks, morning, she mutters to herself. comforter pushed aside, beads of sweat rolling off the bangs matted to her temples, may allows her body the respite of cool floorboards, chilling her aching body. wait, why is my body aching? where is my home? where am i? startled eyes, dizzy from the relentless waves of heat, burst open with fervor known only to the insane and the driven. there were a lot of questions, of course. that’s human nature. staring up at the ceiling, a small fan twirls daintily. this isn’t right, she keeps saying to herself. this can’t be right.

no answers can be fulfilled lying face-up on the floor, so in a flurry of movement, may was upright at last. tenatively, she made out the visage of fate that lay before her:

a half-eaten pizza. thrown lazily over a laptop.

why is there a pizza here?! i don’t even like pizza!

may took this opportunity of pure speculative confusion to observe the furnishings around her– a bed with no frame, laid at the end of the room with pastel flowers adorning the comforter; a small, yet thoughtful rug that looked incredibly soft if layed upon, if there weren’t a black cat sitting directly in the center of it, enjoying the sun; a desk with the aforementioned pizza laptop at the other end of the room; and a communist flag pinned to the wall with two small knives.

cool.

i need to find a fan.

PROLOGUE

1 maybe this is the beginning of something new.

maybe this is the end of something ancient.

maybe this simply is.

2 she can’t do it alone.

be strong, may. be strong. run fast, head high, legs pumping– as long as you are going away from what you once were. that, dear, was a fate worse than death.

i don’t think death itself envies you, to be honest.

3 if you keep walking, maybe eventually possibly you can wake up from this and it will all be better.

but you know, you can’t outrun fate.

fate has its own tendrils that operate on their own terms and own laws and own everything and it doesn’t give a shit if it hurts you. because it has a job. and it’s doing a pretty great job at that job, and it probably doesn’t like that job but it doesn’t have a choice because its fate bosses tell it to do that job or else it’ll lose its fate job in its fate cubicle making a fate wage so it can feed its fate family. and they have their own fates, too, forcing them into this fate paradox that never seems to pause or contemplate why it does that, as if that too has a fate that it was predestined for.

my head hurts,

i really need some coffee. when was the last time i had something to drink? it was a day ago, probably. it’s not like, out here, i have much to go off of in terms of resources. if the winter chill nipping at my fingertips could be as filling as they are annoying, i’d never have to eat or drink anything again. now i’m hungry too. i am kind of wandering the wilderness, so i suppose i’m not too surprised. but i still am. in an apathetic kind of way. like, i will be conscious of what is happening, think to myself, oh, well i should do something about this, and never actually act upon it. even now i feel like im just watching a movie of someone else who just so happens to be traversing the alaskan landscape in search of something that isn’t there, wondering what their motivations are. gnawing on popcorn, sucking down heaven’s nectar and in the calming embrace of separate souls, lapping up the emotional buffet such a connection offers to one so malnourished. certainly sounds good right about now.

but i’ve accepted that, after about the nineteenth mile of uninterrupted walking, i understood that my entire existence was to never be ‘good’. good is the term that people never meant for anything say to quantify their meaningless lives by trying to find purpose in purposeless things. they have to do something for 80 years before they kick the bucket, right? grass doesn’t have things to look forward to, to aspire to be, to discuss, yet here it is, frozen and pale in the face of winter’s countenance, tenderly caressing its neck with its white-hot temptation. and grass doesn’t hurt anybody, either. all grass ever did was be green and be eaten by things who like hurting other things. grass has feelings, too, but no one cares. because it’s grass. and we are people, but honestly, we’re so much worse than grass. grass deserves more good its life than we have ever had. grass hasn’t killed other grasses. grass just wants to be the best grass it can be and it tries so fucking hard to be that. its grass parents must be so proud of it.

i wish i were grass.

4 stars wink at me sometimes. their flirtatious personalities are intoxicating, which makes it all the more heartbreaking when i realize the distance between them and i. i wish i could be up there with them, and succumb to their allure, be subject to the countless stories and thoughts, their transcendental banter, their flaws and fears and fate all lined up for me to gorge upon with all senses in wide-eyed stupor. the stars have their qualms about the universe too, i’m sure. but to be a celestial body must have its perks, too. for one, you never have to worry about not having enough time. you’re the largest measurer of time, only trumped in its universal dominance by the ones who set them there at all. also, you’re friends with other stars, whether they like it or not. your galaxy would be, essentially, a set of unbreakable friendships. you’re all orbiting each other, invariably destined to meet in a cataclysmic reuniting. it’s poetic: tragic and moving and short-lived yet unmistakably important to those involved, for they are foreverchanged with unmistakablelove. those were books i was writing on before i began this wandering journey into eternal oblivion. i doubt they’ll get finished, but it’s the fact that i tried at all that makes it powerful.

5 now, as i wrap my cardigan around my knees and crush the life out of these frozen leaves with my weight it must bear, i contemplate the purpose of my existence as an individual among individuals. is it true that some are destined to live in the solitary confinement of their shadow, as a mere instrument of mimicry? that is all i have become. to serve the whims of another, willing to destroy the whole of my being just to catch another glimpse of him, to prove i have life worth living, pulsing throughout my chest. but now i sit, cracked, with my split soul, breathing life into these leaves, similarly cracked, and similarly dead, and similarly subservient to me. this is hope leaving my body. i can feel its warmth pour in drops at first, yet slowly collecting into a technicolor pool, paled slightly by my tears added to the mixture. i like pastels anyway.

it has been pouring since the encounter. whatever it touches lives again. my goal is to find the man. and hug him. and let the torrent of tears stain his jacket, and my soul to drench him in his ignorance, to heal him, for he is the broken one, not i. i am not cruel. i am not beyond help. neither is he. no one is evil. he is confused. i am confused. we are confused. i will heal him.

6 you ever have those dreams that seemingly go on for decades, that build their own narratives and relationships and struggles that become all the more important than your own as you reside within them for those few brief hours of rest? where you remember every detail of your fictional love’s morning routine, as it was your favorite part of waking up, watching them dance while brushing their teeth, and sing in the shower way too loud letting yourself join in and not caring about the fact that both sound like a duet of cats dying in the rhythm of california gurls? where you remember the pain of losing imaginary loved ones, those ones whom your entire being was poured into, that made you the best fictional person you could possibly be. where you wake up in tears because you died crying, in a hospital bed, not sure what would be on the other side, and it just so happens to be that this actual, tangible life was the alternative, even though you would probably prefer a legitimate death without this purposeless, lifeless existence you actually inhabit being a purgatory for the next 60 years. those dreams have been appearing to me more and more recently, and i’m sure there’s a reason for their occurrences. maybe its because of this crisp wilderness air constantly barraging me with endless strokes of its mighty wind, or the fact that i haven’t seen another person in three days, or eaten in almost two, or the fact that i’m kind of disintegrating before my very eyes. the puddle my heart has left keeps a nice warm patch on the ground where the grass has been reborn, but aside from that i am cold. very cold. i can see some lights in the distance, kind of like a hazy sea of distant fireflies, gracefully following their own solo lines while maintaining the integrity of the whole symphony simultaneously. it’s rather pretty. if it weren’t for this hypnotic flurry of flickering, i would pass it. but i am intrigued. what stories will lie here, who knows. i can only pray they will leave me more answers than questions.

7 as my eyelids rush to meet each other as soon as those faint, flickering lights form distinct rectangles, i find myself feeling oddly at peace with everything. as i give in to gravity and the earth whispers my name, may, may, lay your weary head upon my shoulder and allow me to bear your burden, all things become so very obvious. alike the situation that placed me here, skull against skin against upturned earth, i succumb to alluring temptation once more, with the knowledge that my limbs, although leaden, have lead me farther in this time alone than they ever had in the life i lead before, and that was a comforting thought. maybe this all was a worthwhile endeavor, as the crash of footstep berates my sensitive ears with their screeching calls.

if i had known he would be the stars, and the grass, and the earth, and all other things, maybe i wouldn’t have come here. it’s all intertwined, there’s no escaping this or that or anything or nothing because even absence leaves a gaping hole in my chest that leaks out like a starving child begging for sustenance, as tears flow and fears grow and lives are snuffed out, one by one. i would rather take their place, there. some of those starving people who will never have a chance could have a chance if i allowed them to have it. i’ve wasted my life, on things that never really mattered or cared, but they could have done something amazing, gone on to change the world forever, instead of having the soul sucked out of them as life pours out of their eyes like tears so similar. i wonder if anyone feels the same way about me, that i could be something great if i were only capable of and given the chance. i think about that a lot. the possibility of something else, of renewal, of happiness. it’s simply a thought, but it’s a thought worth thinking of.

8 i was asleep for a day, i was asleep for a thousand days. time is a petty quandary anyhow.

what was true was the tears – millions upon millions of tears begotten by the tortures of millions upon millions of demons locked away in one solitary skull. sleep was never my friend; sleep never attended birthday parties or called late at night to make sure arteries were intact or laughed at dumb jokes or anything like that. sleep was the listless vixen that cloyed at my mind, always tempting me to the brink of exhaustion but ever allowing me to partake, never allowing me anything but the utter agony of lack of control. but this was especially horrid, as the role had been reversed. now lady list had her tendrils firmly secured, her jaw relentlessly locked on my consciousness. left to her mercy once more, the agony poured from my eyes in steamy globs one after another as the pain throbbed in my temples because the temple of solitude within my mind had been breached ad neverendum. i was forced to play out the pain of my past as her poison passed through my porous brain, a catalyst for the horrors of the may that once experienced them to be rejuvenated with enthralled vigor once more. i was worse than dead. it should have left me there, to die in my own pity, convulsing and confused and scared. but that would be too convenient. eventually, her poison drained from the wounds i had inflicted myself, numerous and agonizing in their own right. i had to. it was required. i couldn’t stand the thought of it all anymore. you can only handle so much.

we’re only human.

well, most of us.

9 my eyes, shrouded with glistening stars that swirled around nauseously as i took in my surroundings, danced across this unfamiliar environment. scuttling feet enveloping my senses, in all senses but sight: no matter how hard i tried to focus on the brittle tile that sent shivers cascading through my body, no clarity ever emerged. i was left with a vague sense of the location i was residing within: the floor of a tavern. freezing, filthy. i was apparently dragged inside with no real thought as to my condition or situation: for if these fumbling buffoons were to realize the seriousness of my predicament they would surely be healing my every wound and bowing their head to the bobbing of mine, attempting to raise my upper body. neither of these conclusions were to be fully realized, though i thought myself a queen for a time: to control all things with but a mere breath, to flaunt one’s ability and status with crooning grace and fullness; capable of destroying the lives of those around me but being empathetic enough to allow their lives sustenance for another day, and letting the reaper grow thin and his scythe rusty due to my own diligence. i would be the master of mortality, able to move any single, simple soul to accomplish this countenance’s humble requests. one could actually compare these actions to those of

UP. AWAKE,. I, I FEEL, COLD. . WHERE IS MY HEART? ? IT’S BEEN BLEEDING ALL OVER THIS DAMNED FLOOR. MUDDYING UP THE BOOTS OF THOSE UNACCUSTOMED TO SUCH LOWLY TRIBULATIONS THAT ONE OF MY OWN STATURE MUST ENDURE. SO SORRY, , MADAME, MISTER, I SHALL ALL AT ONCE CLEAN MY PLACE AND PERSON AS TO BE AS TRIFLING OF A INCONVENIENCE AS POSSIBLE, I MOST WHOLEHEARTEDLY ASSURE YOU THIS IS COMMONPLACE FOR PEOPLE WITH ISSUES SUCH AS MINE OH YES PLEASE DONT TOUCH IT YOU’LL BURN YOURSELF. YOU’LL BE DAMAGED. WHYA RE YOU STARING/? AT ME LIKE HTAT? OH I MUST HAVE BEEN INTRUSIVE MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES I SHALL PACK MY BELONGINGS AND GO PLEASE SIR FINE SIR MOVE ASIDE, ,,, WHY ARE YOU STANDING THERE, UNMOVING AND UNBLINKING AS IF THE WORLD HAS NEVER GRACED YOU WITH AN IMMOVABLE BEAUTY SUCH AS I? HOW RUDE OF YOU, I SHALL

run run run. run. run run? run, yes, yet my legs waver and mind shakes at the onset of actuality. this is not good. i must change course, find solace in the upstairs rooms, where i will surely pay for my intrusion into somehow. these awestruck peoples have been stagnant since my arousal, how peculiar– and this is coming from me! each step is as if my whole soul is to be thrust into the heat of a battle, and each cell inside my body are the unwavering yet unwilling soldiers who understand their demise is necessary and inevitable in order to protect those who admonish them on home soil as their greed stockpiles as quickly as complacency grows. i have been here for hours, it seems, attacking these cursed slopes that haunt my every movement, as i clamor up their taunting, unnervingly pearl-white faces. my chest heaves and my screams are apparent, but they are wholly necessary for the process at work here: yet still oblivious onlookers seem more interested in the past than present. the solid oak door moans as loudly as i: please, come inside me, come in and never leave, you are mine and always was. i was always one to give into temptation. the door swings with greased hinges, carrying me as momentum forces me to land on the bed directly in front of m-

ow. now i’m unconscious again, aren’t i? who knows how long i’ll be trapped in here. it’s pretty rank, too. i never much cared for it. i’d trade it out for a new one in a moment if i were able to, but those sorts of things are only what can come true in fantasy, and not reality, this reality of cracked and flowing hearts and polished white floors and hungry doors waiting to consume their next meal. this is reality. and i try so hard to convince myself that yes, reality is something worth fighting for, and here i am, at its mercy once again.

at least the floor is warm now.

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