Wherever
Na preva hotiz mehe zlo
Chat dos it teh pez mai vi nha
Me ta hi niyoto poz natye
Zveta davouk lavin luna
-Vocea, Cirque de Soleil
Once, I saw a man whom I have heard of in poems and ballads. I know not of where I saw him but I saw Icarus. I saw him, felt him, know him.
This is his story when he woke up.
Everything was in black and white and he did not feel anything. Not hot, not cold. He held out his hands to try and touch the golden rays of the sun. Nothing. It did not burn his naked skin nor did it blind his eyes, did not even touch those crimson eyes of his. He looked up at it as he walked through the world, drawn to its yellow glow. He will follow her wherever she goes.
Once, Icarus leapt into the air and tried to fly to her
but fell.
He cried out in shock and examined his thin arms; but there were no wings. Why did he try to fly if he had no wings? Now he feared to stand up, because while he felt no pain he felt the anguish of failing. Of falling. Slowly, hesitantly, he went back up onto his feet. Compelled to follow the golden sun and eyes as blue as his own. What was he walking on and where was he going? He wondered. But the sun does not tell anything.
For so long they walked, there was nothing else in the world but this sun and he followed her until she stopped. As if a mirage, he found himself by a lake adorned with lush green trees and smooth, brown stones. Icarus looked at the lake, orbs of green gazed back at him as his hands, fascinated by his reflection, reached out to touch his face. To see if it was real. So small and pale was the reflection that gazed back at him; and so burnt. He is no longer a child of innocence but too young to know anything or be anything. Too foolish. In frustration, he looked away. It looked too much like him.
Above Icarus was a tree and its branches were bare of everything but a single yellow bud. He could not recall what happened next; only the delicate, tightly wrapped petals, fringed in white. He remembers the single dewdrop that slid down its papery folds, his hands cradling the gentle bud and watching with awe as it writhed slightly and bloomed, a butterfly emerged with black, black wings. It fluttered its wings once and took off into the air, everything withered as it flew. Blood rained from the sky and the water, black with sludge, crawled beneath my feet. A black stain tore across the sky, following the butterfly in its flight. Everything shattered and everything withered away until all was black.
It was a trIck, he told himself as he stared at the dead flower in his hand.
Like the sun. Like me.
Nothing was left and in his heart -my heart- the fear of falling came once more. Don’t want to stand again, longed to fly and to escape but there was a fleeting memory of melting wings and burning flesh. but the burning desire to escape was still there rooted deep in all the fear. All he could do now is sleep. He closed his eyes. I closed my eyes.
And woke up.
-----
This is suppose to resemble a dream and hopefully I succeeded? Ah, if only I could draw or like, videotape my mind...
This is for my latest idea and there was a lot of debate (this half of my brain vs. that other half) about that last line because it is from another piece that is suppose to compliment this one. Ah, there are still a lot of things that I am indecisive about so this is sure to change a lot xP
Opinions and critiques?
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