?

Log in

Previous Entry | Next Entry

The room is too quiet

It was slow and rhythmic; it was the only sign that i was still alive.

The evil came always late at night, choking me with cold fingers in the form of air. It didn’t take long to wake me up, for I have learned to be alert; to every sound, to every move.

The first thing I heard were his steps in the ground, it wasn’t much the sound of his feet, but the sound of the earthquake they cause. The first thing I feel were his hands touching my ankles and then the feeling of him melting into my skin, and entering my bones. He rapidly reach my brain, taking me, somehow, to an underground-like world.

The flames were black and red – opaque and bright, cold and melting hot – and the ground were I step were no ground at all, it was half the skull and half the ashes of them. Above me the bodies of men and women were hung and were surrounded by white ghost that look eerily like a fog so I could only see the feet of the corpses.

Right then I knew where I was. There was no place like that in earth and neither in imagination.

If I stared too long at any side of me, the horizon of mountains expanded as if they were just appearing. There was no end and the sensation of see it all felt heavily like a heart attack.

Hell was just so infinite, and corpses and skulls and ghost and sins were just about it.

I felt like wanting to die or better said; wanting to not exist at all, because I already was dead and already was I in hell.

The faint sound of screams was carried to me, coming from nowhere in particular but all around. But there was a stronger sound; slow and rhythmic, that was pushing its way into my conscious.

The sound it’s at the same time strange and familiar; it is strong and has a feeling of its own; like a presence. I took a few seconds to realize that it was my own very breathing.

I was breathing and it sounded so strong because there was no similar sound in there.

It was slow and rhythmic; strange and familiar.

I was the only one alive in hell.

I was the only one.

It was slow and rhythmic, strange and familiar. It was my breathing; the only sign I was still alive.

I tried to focus on that and soon I started to feel like iron instead of bones, like a stick stuck on my head and a dying grip on my ankles.

It was the sensation of coming again to me, where I belong, where I’d never left.

Because evil could take me away to hell every night, but as long as I breathe I could always came back at dawn, because the room was too quiet and my breathing was stronger than a thousand cries

Comments

theravensister
Nov. 28th, 2012 02:10 am (UTC)
I have a lot of images in my mind, I really don't know if I delivered them as I wanted to... they were strange, I think that was it.

I actually have been thinking a lot about fear lately, I really, really want to convey what it is, not fear, but the sensation of fear.

In my head that explanation actually has a lot of sense, whatever

:)
clarionj
Nov. 28th, 2012 03:57 pm (UTC)
I think the images are part of what's striking in your poetry and prose. And that's the best way to write: conveying thoughts and moods in images or actions, letting people feel them.

I like your idea of conveying the sensation of fear. I think I know what you mean. My daughter was just reminding me of when she was little and had chicken pox. She wanted to describe how it felt, and what it looked like, and I gave her paper and crayons and she drew it. It was an orange steel building of some kind.

I think we feel sensations like fear physically, but they also have texture, color, cause adrenaline rushes, make our body shake, or a knot sit in our stomach, and raise images in our minds. I think you're very good at conveying that level! I hope to read the prose piece here soon. (I've two people home sick with me and am doing a lot of running around care taking. But I hope to take some breaks!)