#drabbleposting:randomaction

[kingofclowns]

Teal. Teal. Yellow. Blue. Jade. Teal. Rust. Cobalt. Brown? No, olive. Yes, olive. Olive, olive, olive, rust, rust, rust, cobalt, cobalt, olive, olive, olive, blue, teal, yellow...

You can't paint fast enough. Not at all. Every one of them is murmuring something utterly different and the sound is growing from a dull drone to a roar as you fail to meet the fervor of their voices, fail to place them impeccably against and with each other. The edges where the colors meet are not harmonizing as they should. Something is wrong.

You step back from the wall and your heel finds the remains of a jar, but you can no longer remember if it was one thrown or dropped. Paint drips from your fingertips as you stare down towards the slowly growing little puddle of royal purple pooling beneath your feet.

Fuck it. There's more important shit to worry about. You have plenty of blood in your veins.

The yellow is back to screaming about the light far off in the void of a universe not yet born, one you will never see, and it really isn't clicking with the way the fucking nungreen is all chiding you about being soft more often, the way the rust shit's got it's voice up about impermanence and futility in the face of death. 

You are exhausted. You are not done.

[kingofclowns]

You have got to stop sleeping dry.

You do know better, it isn't that you don't. But the idea of a coon has made you horrifically restless of late, and so you've taken to sprawling out on the floor or across your throne and just dealt with the dayterrors as they come to you.

Although, you do wish you had daymares that any bit of sense could be taken from. You know several brothers and sisters who take great pleasure in dissecting the dreams and terrors of their siblings, but have never found one that can describe yours. They are not always terribly complex; it's just that they make no sense.

What you hate most are the long dreams of whispered color schemes and patterns that you are always unable to recall upon waking. It makes you feel dreadfully inferior, forgetful or unworthy of the combinations that might turn those whispers into music and to stories.

Nungreen, yellow, blue blue blue, that burgundy shit, something is always missing.

[kingofclowns]

She is sorely missed. You aren't lying when you say it. You aren't certain that you can lie to this one, which is a troublesome thought but a different thing all together. There's enough admiration for her left in you that sometimes you wish you had not promised her what you did.

But then you get to walking around and talking with the ones who don't consider you a stupid wriggler, to painting and preaching and culling. You bring out all your arrogance and throw it into what you do and you love it. And thus the regret of her passing never lasts too long.

That's not to say you never light a candle for her, or give up a small prayer for her soul. You mourn her in private, in quiet moments before you get to coon or upon waking. They've lessened in frequency over time, no longer as frantic or necessary to ground you. 

You refuse, however, to fall to her post mortem. You will be your own damn king and you know what you want and no one is going to stop you. No one.

[kingofclowns]

It's been a fine night all things considered. The walls are remaining quiet, though sometimes that's a mercy itself. You've been given a surprising amount of privacy. The ache in your pan diminishes notably with an admittedly pleasant application of pressure to your ganderbulbs, though you'd much rather it were not there.

Woe is you, pitiful creature. Hahaha. 

But there's this feeling. Similar to having forgotten something really motherfucking important or when someone gets it in them that it'd be really funny to move everything in a brother's block to the left three inches while he's out, something just beyond your ability to reach out and get a hold of it.  Something is off. Something is wrong.

But fuck if you can tell what, so for now you'll keep your fingertips on your lids and work over what's left to be done with the night.