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Spirited 0.1

Firestarter · 2007-03-18T01:46:00Z

0.1 "All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil." -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound . Deep down, like everything, beauty is mechanical. There is nothing spontaneous about it. It is easy to gaze upon a pink sunset, a calming waterfall, a quiet orchard, and whisper our pleasure. There is no admittance that behind it all, there are hidden cogs; there are silent hands forming the future landscapes; there are workers with no names. There would be some that say beauty is just a lucky offshoot of chaos (all the dice land on sixes). It is easy to think so when one does not understand the procedure behind the scenes. It is something to be worked at and shaped. If beauty was arbitrary, there would be no real satisfaction. The spoken words wasted; admiring nothing but chance. But through the industry of beauty, we have something to savour. Something to appreciate. Time will pass, but the final result will always be worth the plaudits. Seventh floor. C Block. Salamis Flats. One more step towards beauty. A cog has begun to turn, and the wheels of fortune start spinning the right way. She is still like the winter air. Her eyes, piercing blue, watch through the misty windows of the apartment. She is waiting. The food is boiling, perhaps for too long, because the hot water seeps through the small crack between the pot and the lid, bubbling onto the hot surface. There is nothing for her to worry about anymore. The food is not her problem, nor is the dark stains on the carpet, nor the open front door, nor the broken table. The first fuel burns. The knife is perched without grace in her jugular. It has barely slipped since it first plunged into her throat. The fall slightly dislodged it, but it stands almost vertical. Her body is in perfect condition, except for the extreme blood loss. Somehow her clothes are untouched, the threads as faultless as always. Yet only the wristwatch on her left arm ticks, her last pulse, her last testament to sound. It is the only sound that permeates the silence previously achieved. Minus the rising rattling of the lid, and the fizz of evaporation. The machine starts (it is ready). On a cold morning, someone has lost their mother. Despite that, or because of that, far away, a man is smiling. In the hidden corners of the world, the engines slip into their habitual run, fulfilling their purposes. They are the soldiers of beauty, though the grease of their dirty art is far from the aesthetics of their production. One woman’s life refreshes their power, and they churn with a more contended hum. The first lines of the poem are written in blood.

Memento Mori

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Points 890

Reviews 38

Tue Mar 18, 2008 10:55 pm

Memento Mori says... · Tue Mar 18, 2008 10:55 pm

It's pretty good, just go a bit easy on the descriptions next time. I found them way too long, and they didn't leave much for my imagination.

Of course, this is just my opinion. Also, this is already quite good. You don't really need to change anything.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, pee in it, and serve it to the people who piss you off. Outdo yourself. ^^

Quote

As the notifications drift in I stop and wonder. Why do they take so long? Do they have adventures we don't know about? I bet they do. When they come I will ask myself. What amazing adventure has this straggling notification been on? How far did it travel, and why didn't it take me?
— TypoWithoutCoffee

Spirited 0.1

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