Blue Art

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Blue Art

Vermilion Black *~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~**~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~**~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~**~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*

Your roads are paved over with broken glass and glowing coals, yet you ask yourself “why won’t anyone scorch their flesh for a vast empty space?” Your skull is rattling with glass diamonds and your nose is dry. Fall, and the sound of your body hitting the ground will fade, all these eyes will wink shut, stammer off to the next thought, and it will serve them better than the empty space that you never took up. Everyone’s noses are just running with blood and there are you, face down at your desk, just leaking out nothing like a faucet spewing out absence. Everything is pushing right past you and leaving you with dust in your eyes. the smell of sweetgrass in your nose so strong that it makes your eyes water. Each step is sending you sinking into the carpet, deeper and deeper with everything just swaying out of reach. Feels like your lugs are filling with molasses, and everything goes vermilion-black; just like the thoughts spilling out of your head. Onto your desk. Onto the floor. Onto the ground. Onto the.

-Adrift-

Et il est un jour arrivé Marteler le ciel
Et marteler la mer
Et la mer avait embrassé moi
Et la délivré moi de ma caille

-This Train Is Empty-

And the sound is all muffled, masked by the walls around you, seperating you into your own safe, little pit.
You can feel it running down the side of your face like sweat, spilling and spilling and spilling out of your head,
black pitch, tap, tap, tap, smattering onto the seat beside to you. This train is derelict. This train isn't moving.
This train is empty. This train is leaking air. Help me. Help me. Help me.
Help. ehlp. jejol. eko. help. jelp. ejpl.help.elpejp.help.ekpl.ehlp
.jejolejole.heple.ejklple.jhelp.ekjlepl elphelp e.je.n
help.. please...;.

-Downer-

Noboby wants to be friends with someone who's sad all the time over their lack of friends.
"Truss that mouth of yours, f*****." Just like always.

-Rot-

AND I CAN'T SEEM TO WAKE UP!
It isn’t that cold anymore. I’ve gotten used to it. I probably look dead right now, head on the table with blood spilling onto my sleeves.
I guess those people wouldn’t notice if I was actually dead. That’s kinda funny.
I close my eyes again. What a bittersweet feeling. I wish I could stay here forever.
Breath in the crisp air. Close my stinging eyes.
And fall asleep.

-Matter #1 & #2-

*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~**~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~**~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~**~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~* The sound of the heater softly drones around the room as he lied on the floor. The heater couldn’t be turned off in the winter, nor could it be adjusted, it stays as it is. The floor was cool though, cooler than his bed at least, so lying on the cool, hard floor was better than lying on the soft, heatstroke-inducing bed. But there was still a malaise about it. He couldn’t fall asleep. He just stared at the ceiling with his head resting on a pillow he brought down with him. There were sirens going off outside and inside; he could see the red, flickering lights flash by as they spilled though his window and onto the wall. He moved his gaze to the TV set lying on the floor next to him, a box television that he found out in the street, still worked. It was shut off so all he could see was his reflection in the glass, staring back at him with those tired eyes. He continued to watch his reflection vacantly watch back until the light disappeared around him into a haze of darkness, red light still flashing on and off into the deepest blues.
Such a soft whine that siren was, reverberating around your glass-diamond filled head. And when you refocused your gaze your reflection was gone in the glare off the TV screen. And the floor beneath you was red hot, perforating all your fibers and sinking into the flesh. You pulled yourself off the ground with all of your effort to not burn up and manage to get to your feet, your head aching like hell. You stammered off into the kitchen in the heat and saw into the bathroom from there. Into the mirror. Nothing stared back but all of the space around you that you refuse to take up, refuse to materialize in the eyes of anyone else. Even the mirror refuses to see.
Red. It was, and still is, so red. I tore my eyes away from the bathroom mirror and turned on the oven as sweat and tears beaded down my face. Everything was so loud. Everything was so torrid. Pressure was building up in my skull. And I turned on the stovetop and I opened the oven and I could smell it all. It smelled like hate. It smelled like bleeding wounds and rot. And it all felt like a wave. Like a warm hug. An embrace. It was blistering hot. It was blistering warm. It was all pouring over me in a rush of heat. There is no peak of the crescendoing fire. And I stuck my face in and it burns. And it burns hot. And I pulled back.
I shut the oven and turned it off. Once the light from the heat was gone I stood there and caught my breath, arms spread over the kitchen counter. The heat wasn’t going away.
I glance at the bathroom mirror. at my absence in it. and open the refrigerator door. and climb inside. and shut the door. There is no red. And there is no blue. In here.