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quixotism2011-01-02 09:36 pm
bromantic.livejournal.com) wrote in quixotism2011-01-02 09:36 pm
Entry tags:
[fanfic] [casshern sins] the afterlife (or six things he lost)
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telrunya
There was nothing to go back to but the new feel of grass against his feet. No flowers. He wonders if he could stand the sight of them without Lyuze in the background, her back bent and and her fingers tossed in the air, glittering with water.
He knew it now to be love, but he wished he did not.
Like most ghosts, he retraced the steps of his old life. He found the white walls, the paint already chipping away. He sees ivy on the walls and a faint frisson of anger chipped away at him, peeling away. He hummed with anger, for a friend that no one remembered, for paint that would not last.
He lightly fingered his marks. Would they stand as eternity's witness? His body hummed, but he did not.
If he walked deep into the water, would he drown? Could he drown?
The beach stands with him, his footsteps wiped clean with every step.
He stepped on seashells. Ringo would have cried to see him thus.
It was achingly dry, the desert. Not that he felt it, but as he dug his hand into the ground, to feel, to hurt, to drag, he knew it to be so. He wished to drink water, to appreciate water, coolness and gratitude, of survival. He wanted to survive and die surviving.
His hand was caked with dirt and dust and it vanished with the wind.
He sings to himself. He does not remember the words to the songs he had heard, but still he sings. He knows them to be out of tune, his memory lapsing now and then, but still he sings.
He finally found them. It had been a long time and there wasn't much left, save for skeletal parts, metal and glass, blank forms staring back at him. Yet he knew, he sensed them. He knelt down, his hands scraping grass and dirt. He thought of words, tunes, pictures of what needed to be felt, to be told, to be clasped to his heart.
He found nothing. So he drank in their sight, their closeness and felt jealous.
It was a feeling he would have to live with.
telrunyaThere was nothing to go back to but the new feel of grass against his feet. No flowers. He wonders if he could stand the sight of them without Lyuze in the background, her back bent and and her fingers tossed in the air, glittering with water.
He knew it now to be love, but he wished he did not.
Like most ghosts, he retraced the steps of his old life. He found the white walls, the paint already chipping away. He sees ivy on the walls and a faint frisson of anger chipped away at him, peeling away. He hummed with anger, for a friend that no one remembered, for paint that would not last.
He lightly fingered his marks. Would they stand as eternity's witness? His body hummed, but he did not.
If he walked deep into the water, would he drown? Could he drown?
The beach stands with him, his footsteps wiped clean with every step.
He stepped on seashells. Ringo would have cried to see him thus.
It was achingly dry, the desert. Not that he felt it, but as he dug his hand into the ground, to feel, to hurt, to drag, he knew it to be so. He wished to drink water, to appreciate water, coolness and gratitude, of survival. He wanted to survive and die surviving.
His hand was caked with dirt and dust and it vanished with the wind.
He sings to himself. He does not remember the words to the songs he had heard, but still he sings. He knows them to be out of tune, his memory lapsing now and then, but still he sings.
He finally found them. It had been a long time and there wasn't much left, save for skeletal parts, metal and glass, blank forms staring back at him. Yet he knew, he sensed them. He knelt down, his hands scraping grass and dirt. He thought of words, tunes, pictures of what needed to be felt, to be told, to be clasped to his heart.
He found nothing. So he drank in their sight, their closeness and felt jealous.
It was a feeling he would have to live with.