kama still scares you. the ooku was… well, it wasn’t recent. but some wounds leave marks even when they’ve closed over.
kama’s presence smells like lotuses. it’s your first hint whose dreams you ended up in. you’re not a stranger to accidentally finding yourself in someone else’s head, and here it smells of lotuses and a spring breeze. a clean mash extends seemingly forever, filled with blooming flowers. you can’t see your own body, but it’s alright. in the way that this dream isn’t something you have control over, you can’t feel presently concerned about it.
(playing the role of ‘kama’ when uninvited makes the part of you that’s aware you’re not them makes you anxious. makes some part of you feel itchy in this play. you are transgressing, and the last time kama wished to hurt you (albeit indirectly), he took chaldea. you don’t want to know what they’ll feel when they catch you intruding, but you can’t leave.)
this place makes the part of you that’s ritsu nervous as well because it’s too empty. no one’s here. this place makes the part of you that’s kama relaxed, for the same reason. there is simply the world before it burned. your body exists again, to reach out a hand and run fingers (delicate, unmarred) over the petals of the flower nearest you. it can be like this, sometimes.
it can, sometimes, feel as if love is a gentle thing. if there was a point to this exercise, it would be to… you look up, surprised and not all at the same time. your wetlands is dissolving– no. it is burning. in blue fire that eats away at your space, at the thing you claim and at your peace, it dissolves. the edges catch and it burns like a painting, like paper that you happen to be standing in.
past the edges is only nothingness. past the edges is only ananga. you remember this. you remember ‘your’ death. there is no leaving so you simply stand and watch, almost bored, tired of this being the same ending as always, until the flames creep up your limbs and you burn. even the pain is rote. it doesn’t make it easier. it just makes it annoying on top of painful. the part that is ritsu claws at your arms with hands that are gone. the part that is kama that is ananga knows it’s the way of things and leans your head back to watch the sky.
there’s no stars here, either. how lonely and painful. what a letdown of an end, this memory that plays over and over in your dreams, ruins a daydream, plays often enough that an interloper catches it. what a letdown. kama’s role, the script that anchors this body in its actions, is all that keeps you from floundering. the taste of blood and smoke in your mouth as the ritsu of you wants only to run, to wake, anything.
germansingergirl
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2087
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