The Sunken Head Says Bye and Somni Says Hi
As a gift for my dear friend Somni;
(Has your mind begin to slip? Do you want your life story to live on after you die? Then perhaps you need a narrator, my friend, for this is what I do. I listen and I will be listening.)
The night was damp both in soil and in soul. The pitter-patter of the rain outside kept the building and it's cherry-scented inhabitants from the surrounding air while setting the tempo. Meanwhile, the lightning set the mood. Background ambiance paired with empathic weather, like wine goes with cheese and cheese goes with mania.
Dr. Richardson, who was feeling a bit floaty, leaves in a bit of a hurry, in hopeless hopes that nothing followed her out.
The click of the key locking the door was like the moon rising and the conductor baton tapping their stand. The curtain bowed, a knowing wink or a nutcase cracking twitch that let on that a story was brewing.
The Sunken Head, still in his jar floating off within worlds afar sunken inside itself, is sitting on that same shelf in Dr. Moria's office, which had its furniture nailed down in pristine order (what you can't do for the head you do for the shed, right?)
By now the Head's jar was already cracked, as was the head. The look of the outside matched its disdain for the inside. It sat abandoned and forgotten, the Head and jar had floated long enough, although the Jar's crack still looks like a smile. A rumble of thunder and shook the shelf and knocked off the jar. As they, fell you could almost hear a lyre playing in the background. The sunken head, ever the hopeful one, was high on dreamy delusions and kept up by the formaldehyde.
With its last breaths, and while too cracked for repair, the Head breathes in lies which of course seem lighter than air, but being lies they lead him nowhere but down. The sunken head said bye, I swear I heard him say it, but I may have forgotten or I may have hidden it somewhere strange. Or then again it could have been a sonic mirage drowned by the zeppelin cries of Somni, sitting on the asylum shower floor in the room next door.
Somni, a certain sadness drifts up from her case file, lost in a lovely haze. She was locked outside the gate of dreams but now she can’t close the door. Slowly she has become the type of person who is more themselves in the shade of dream than in the light of day. The type who would call vomit grandma's fresh baked cookies. She just left being one thing be something else for a while. But Somni wasn't always like that. She used to be a person fleshed-out like a rainbow of colors all equally vibrant woven together as one. Sometimes one color shines over the others but one they still are.
Anyway, Somni is now just grey with a sprinkling of blue thoughts and sepia-toned polaroid paper for her expression, which used to sit still holds a story behind it, but it's telling it, not her...
(Whoever it was talking, I am the one listening, as I do) And poor Somni was different now, dreamy-eyed, in fact, dreamy everything and not much else left.
(I couldn't bare to look at her, unprofessional as it may seem. She just looked so hollow, so distant, yet but not as much as it weighs on her, she seemed as full as the heavens, and that thought it weighs on me)
I heard some rustling from inside of Somni's paper mache head and that rustling sounded like words.
"They hug-em so tight, hug-em like a straight jacket, hug em so that all goes up, air-headed, and their dreams fly... Please follow them."
Somni looked, longing at the wall like water looks ice on a hot day.
"When I close my eyes, I go away, but when I close my eyes I fly too. When I'm awake, I’m me but I don't know where", she continued.
The wall just stared back blankly with a shallow-painted house of cards, wall doesn’t listen though not a much as they are listed through.
"Whatever, humh!” Somni said, “See if I care.. Just stare, God knows I can't. Oh, fuck you, wall. You’re just, uh, so flat too... And uh... oh.. Don't give me that look. Fine I...I love you too"
(Oh, wow. That had my heart -- unprofessional, I know, but they're so cute together. I mean you mortals favor insults and slide slices of slights under your breath -- each like needles precision-filled with the right mix of truth and lies and stories and mud. But goodwill and compliments are resigned to cheap empathic gestures tossed away like a pennies with no worth or chime like they mean less? But in insults or compliments, you mortals sure feel them, and that's being right human? Seriously is it?)
"Someone else put my smile on me, it’s not mine anymore, stitched it with no thought for the feelings already inside. When I sleep, a million torch bug sing with just colors and monkey's dance with tales and feelings. Beautiful as it all is, it's not me. I just want me again," Somni wailed out at the Wall.
The Wall gazed back at her with the most open and sincere shade of white you ever saw, and Somni, she just sank into the Wall's embrace.
But at night, on the verge of her death-by-dreams, asleep and taken over by dreams, it's too dark to see the Wall. And the nightlight gets tired and dreams for itself. Her soul suffocated, withered like skulls nestled inside a worm's belly, like swallowing a sock just to die in silence without a cough. Somni goes blank. All the stories you could swallow take the stage, make a curtain of her soul, and begin to play.
Then she's simple like a dummy hanging on puppet strings or like someone spitting on cotton and stuffing it into your ears instead of listening. Lost inside her dreams, like a never-ending nighterror, now Somni appears empty, seemingly simple,her face just a memory, one last mockery of the dream-cage she’s now left inside of.
(And inside of the cage there are images so potent they sting you, my reader. The sky in your own eyes is sinking at the thought, isn't it? And the thought of a lost soul stitches itself into the wrinkles on your crickeld up face.)
Somni is simple and plain like the wall, but Somni is deep like nightmares too. But she doesn't know it anymore, those beautiful dreams drowned her very memory. All she knows is that there's nothing like the comfort of a white wall and a warm straight jacket, heated by a cloud of her silent sighs. Her condition just keeps her tied down, eyes stitched open watching blankly as wondrous sleepy worlds go on living inside her. So she shivers off to dream on the asylum shower floor. And although she’s gone, she’s too far down to notice. And although her blank expression isn't a smile it is at least her’s.
POST A COMMENT
See Also
Want to read more news? Click here for a random article.