fingerpaint the sky

till everything shines

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For Mir
[misc] dreamers
genarti
The thing is.

There are spaces between atoms. Spaces inside them. Spaces between the dimensions.

Spaces everywhere.

They're not supposed to be solid.

And the other thing is, they are solid -- it's basic principles of physics, attraction and repulsion and polarity of charge, all very tidy if you don't look too closely at the details -- but there are some people who do look at those details. At the fact that an electron is a wave and a particle, and you can measure its location or its speed but not both, and pinning down what's happening anywhere sub-quantum is a whole lot harder than you'd think.

Look at them or, y'know. Ignore them.

When you're used to living a little bit in a dozen different dimensions all at once, you only touch when you choose to.

Everything's as solid as you want it to be. Or as insubstantial.

(And you're always, always holding yourself in. When you walk between the atoms of air and wall and steel, it's only your memory keeping your shape what it is.

Someday, you think, you'll let go. And that's either the most terrifying thought there is, or the most wonderful. Maybe the day you do it is the day you'll figure out which.)




That's not true any more.

What's holding you in is walls.

What's holding you in is your own skin.

What's holding you in is a fucking collar and fucking air and a fucking jail cell and, you think, if anything will drive you mad -- if you're not already mad -- if anything will snap the threads between your mind and reality, lock you into the world inside your skull until you can't see the outside, break the walls you need and cement in all the ones you hate, it'll be this.

Maybe you'll drift away when your mind breaks. Spread yourself through the collar and the walls and all of every universe.

That'd be nice.




There's blood on the wall.

It's yours. Punching a jail cell does that. If you do it often enough.

Your blood doesn't phase either.

Right. It never did. This is, you're aware, not the most sane line of thought to be having.

You'd tell the jailers all about it -- see if they got the joke -- except you're pretty sure insanity pleas aren't so much going to help your case right now. (Even if they were retroactive. Which they're not.) You're supposed to be making a political statement. An example. Gibbering's not the way to go to convince the world of the stability of mutantkind.

Believe it or not.

So you punch the wall again. Leave another smear of blood.

It passes the time.





Maybe you'll take up mime.

Trapped in a box. Get it?

Maybe you'll write the great American novel. If they decide you won't kill somebody with the pen and choke yourself to death on the paper. If you can bear the constant pressure of the pen against your fingertips, the texture of the paper beneath your wrist, the weight of your elbow against the table.

Maybe you'll just punch the wall again.

Guess that one wins out.




You're waiting for a verdict you're too cynical to believe will ever come.

You're staying because you're too idealistic to do anything else.

Too much a pessimist to hope.

Too much an optimist to escape.

Too much of both to listen to yourself on any of this, really.

It's a fun little irony.

Life's just full of 'em.
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