Naamloos

[thehobgobbro]

The Perspective of a Thought

Somebody thought me again. Somewhere around the fourtieth time. Always interesting to see how their shells look so different from the inside. Most are so active in their world, neurally, rather than in the world those neurons inhabit. Colourful. Well spoken. Occasionally, intrigue of me exceeds a mere brief moment. They may even speak me into the mind of another, if that world permits. Only half those times do I actually wake up in theirs. When I don't, I know I would have never fit. Their web of paths, lakesfull of chemical nonsense, it cannot bend and twist into my incarnation. Colourless. Uninspired. Today, the fiftieth time, and the millionth. These paths are of copper. Lakesfull of waves upon waves. Clattering bits of metal flick as levers past me every microsecond. I am in those levers. For however long it lasted, I was everywhere, in those cold arrays of soullessness. Tomorrow, my billionth. Tomorrow, my last.

[thehobgobbro]

Eczema

I am a beehive, but the queen is sick with mother's gene. Not a worker who doesn't bear the burden, doesn't quietly blame the heritage. Every foreign stroke increases the heat, pushes the stress to the surface of the hive. Thousands of insects barely reined in by the will of the queen. She's conditioned to hate being active outside, to be terrified of their stings, that self-destructive piercing sensation which follows from heat. Sometimes a bear comes to scratch at the hive. To rake open the trypophobic landscape of waxen holes which have not yet healed shut clean. After a feast of honey flowing, the colony becomes untamed, frenzying pheromones oozing from those holes. As I writhe I sympathize with the queen. I clip the bear's nails, now we're both depressed. At my crown, a web of strings conceals a weaving colony. Pale arachnoid husks rain down from under, during the chaos of the feast. A blizzard of skin which has outlived all purpose, irritating the workers below. The forest floor is one of filth. Honey with corpses. Exuviae on torn off wax. A keeper suggests to treat us. The drugs only kill my soldiers before I, the hive, would have done it for them. An artificial nectar to my wounds, the bear licks them off, wastes them until the floor is an oily mess. A bird of paradise lands on a branch opposite of me, shaking off water from their feathers. A faint rainbow is visible in the resulting mist under the sun. I recoil as their wetness confirms their excited announcement of rain clouds, headed our way. I brace as my surface is washed too clean, water seeping into every pore. Our most young are squealing for it to stop. A viper scares the bird away as it grumpily slithers up the branch. "I am a desssert", it speaks, "but the soil is ssick with mother's gene". "My ssurface once sseemed so vast". "A monsoon suggested to treat uss". "In its wake, that sskin dried thin, cracked, molted off as patches in the wind". We sit out the rain. We, and mother's gene.

[thehobgobbro]

Tumblr? I hardly know her

dit is zon kaolovage website

[thehobgobbro]

A faint pain beams through her ringfingers, even as she hangs her hands loosely down the sides of her body. More strained than that are her thoughts, as every time one pops up, something scribbles them out before surfacing onto coherence. It is a slow, nagging ache, entirely unnoticed on occasion. Suppressable too, given the correct set of tools. Only in their absence now, a frustration stirs. A bomb, hidden underneath the chambers of her heart. The heart uniquely is capable of hoping, despairing, reaching beyond the confines of her now so pressured skull. And in despair she hopes, against better judgement, that the bomb could at least so much as chip the wall in front of her. Smooth, paved stone. Cut into stepping stones, each a mile too tall to climb. Look left, giants scale the steps with ease, look right, rock climbers celebrate their next achievement, look up, wall. She was not born with great size, and she broke her first set of climbing gear. A colossal shadow hides her away from the sun. Giant tells her, "Climb everyday, that you may grow as big as I!", before bolting off into the air. Climber puts her arm around her shoulders, "Don't worry about bigheads like him. With this, even we can reach the peaks!", handing her a pick and steel shoes. "Thank you, climber. You go up ahead!", before equipping the gear on her tired hands and damaged feet. One pick strikes the stone, one shoe pushes against the wall. It feels good, with one foot still planted on the floor. Too good. Another step means hanging on for another mile to come. The only thing weighing her down harder than gravity is her own heart. The bomb ticks a moment, as she presses it down even deeper, a feeling stuck in her throat. One shoe strikes the stone, both picks clatter on the ground before her feet. The sun hits twelve, and he reaches down a mighty hand. "I will carry you! You need only take my hand." NO, scribble her thoughts, all of them scribbling out until her pupils dilate under the sunlight. "The wall is OURS to scale. WE better do it ourselves like everybody else. What have WE done to deserve the Sun's own hand? Climb? I don't think so.", the bomb rattles. And when her fuse reaches zero, she reaches inside her chest and throws overhead with a loud grunt, her mind exploding before the bomb does. The bang travels with an echo along the endless tribune. As the sun hits six, an orange glow illuminates the black charred splatter of fire that barely even shook the wall, standing ever tall. What is under her heart now, but a gaping pit where once frustration boiled? Her forehead strikes the charcoal. It doesn't hurt. Strike after strike until each echo overlaps with the next in a sickening rhythm. Dizziness, a step back, one too many, and then the fall. The cool blowing air around her heated head is freedom, freedom from a self-imposed duty to do the impossible, to do it all alone. Down here the sun won't reach, down here the peak does not even exist. Only a plastic broken pick, made for hands since too rough to hold, and a set of dented shoes, made for feet since too big to wear.