Madeleine.
A thick river of red clogs the pathway that is my throat. My throat hooks, stops any descent, any ascent. I can barely meet another’s eye, and when I do, I cannot guarantee they will see anything but staggering insanity in them.
My fingers tingle. So do my eyes. They are outlets, these mediums. They ought to channel the deepest lightning of my soul’s rage upward and outward. Yet all they do is sit there, bubbling in static like they are scared, some wanton apprehension befalling them. My eyes water in utmost frustration that why, why, why, why, why, why, WHY?! Why does this happen? Where is the barricade between me and this unsettling, dastardly thing? Why do I ail not of my own accord but because of factors that tempt, threaten me? Me, a god. Me. Me. ME!
Horses run in my vision—savage feral horses. Horses of rabid breeding, of minds so far from purity, they disturb the Devil’s spirit. I call on them, for they understand me. They alone see through this heaviness I carry in my fingertips, so that my pen quakes with every word I write, with every emotion seeping from these fine tips onto flimsy whites that somehow last forever and are yet so disgustingly ephemeral.
It isn’t a thing of fire anymore. It is no heat, no blaze. It is ice, ice that freezes over with the intensity of liquid calidity. It torments the soul. It is ice that whispers blood and ruin and, when flicked the wrong way, does not negotiate. It burns relentlessly, unforgivingly.
At the end, the horses stop. They prance in a circle, warming their muscles for the next adventure. They sit on their bellies, pregnant with rest. The urgency of the moment dissipates into mist. It is all they have known for a considerable while, and now, it is gone. Rendered obsolete so totally, it was as though the very Heavens wove the illusion. Then the next fall begins, and it is a race again.
A fervent, sickening rage again.
as sad as this is to read, I'm sitting here in complete awe of how good a writer you are, Ernestine.
The writing is feverish Dear Ernestine and it beats with turmoil and worn weariness.
These are my favourite lines:
"They sit on their bellies, pregnant with rest." so so poetic!
"Horses of rabid breeding, of minds so far from purity, they disturb the Devil’s spirit." My goodness!
The metaphor of horses racing and prancing paint very vivid imagery. I enjoyed your vocabulary too. I do not fully assimilate the logic of the writing, but I found it brilliantly feverish and torn with exhaust-ing feelings.