she dreams in bruises, in blacks and blues, in greys both pale and deep. she dreams of absolutes and absolution, of the endless chasm between here and there, of the non-space of outside and what lurks where nothing exists. she dreams of mountains and deep seas and lush, vibrant forests and the parched stretch of the desert and she feels the ache of thirst in her bones as if they too might wilt and wither and blow away in the wind.
she dreams in the space where dreams shouldn’t be, half awake, half aware, half alive.
she dreams of a question she doesn’t know. it starts as a flicker, as a spark, the barest hint of an ember of hunger — she should know. and then it grows, it blooms, it stretches out towards the distant dark and she could choose to not follow it if she really wanted but the itch at the base of her neck tells her go in a voice that’s not dissimilar to her own.
go, go, go, go —
she reaches out—reaches out, reaches out—to the dark with formless hands, a soundless voice, and unseeing eyes. she wants in a way that might have shamed her in wakefulness, but that’s how it always is, that’s who she is, it’s all she’ll ever be:
hungry.
insatiable.
wanting.
she dreams of sparks of light and they twist themselves along the thread of the question she doesn’t know to ask and the hunger sharpens its focus suddenly enough that it burns scars into the shape of her that exists here. it’s something—new? old? ageless and curious and she’s sending probelike threads of her own out into the cosmos on the off chance an answer to a thousand questioning voices makes it back.
“who are you
who are you
who are you?” @blcckbrd
