Our dreams are being watched and categorised, left to age like a fine wine and brought back to us at the strangest moments for us to relive the confusion which is so greedily inhaled by the feasting unseen.
They call them lullabies, those soothing sounds made to infants to get them through the nights of harsh dreaming they are subject to, when they have no words to describe the fears the unseen give them.
The arsonist's lullaby smells like singed hair and burnt rubber pipes. It feels like warmth just on the side of discomfort and the adrenaline rush of running from somewhere you shouldn't have been where you did something you shouldn't have done. It sounds like crackling wood and laughter made deep and husky from too many years of smoking.
The vicar's lullaby tastes like room temperature wine, passed around a congregation that barely believes, barely breathes. It looks like flashes of impossibly tall cathedrals whose sainted statues rotate on their plinths, writhing in unimaginable agony to the sound of enthusiastic hymns. It smells like old books and pews damp with the sweat of too many people in too little space, eagerly awaiting words that make them feel saved.
The former child prodigy's lullaby sounds like hateful whispers from loved ones and songs played with almost robotic perfection but for one single note. It feels like a slap that hurts them more than it hurts you and too many books digging into the palms of your hands, a backpack twice as heavy and overflowing with books to be read by morning. It smells like the salt of sweat and tears mingling freely over a face made weary with age before their tenth year.
No comments:
Post a Comment