A second chance at sanity

"dear Sven"

~epistulam (litteras) dare, scribere, mittere ad aliquem—to write a letter to some one.~
Blame the moon-Hazlett

If only you knew
That the only hue
That deserved to be on a canvas
Wasn't red
Maybe then you'd feel more alive
Than dead

The sky cried harder. As his soul remained anchored to the earth. And there he stayed, a person, a human in the flesh. He stared at his canvas. But his staring did nothing. It remained blank. Empty.

Unlike his mind which was unfortunately full of many thoughts. Thoughts that were mainly questions.

If I meant so much to you
The red of my hue
Wouldn't be so stuck in your head
If I meant so much to you
You'd realize that blood really is thicker than water

He hated her yet he loved her at the same time. Why we love the people we loathe was a psychological phenomena he had never come to understand. Sort the way he failed to understand the purpose of his existence.

He searched for reasons in his heart, only to avail a barren cove of darkness. An abyss of nothingness. Nothing but feelings of abandonment atleast.

He stared at the canvas before he started splattering it with shades of blue. Prussian, teal, azure, baby blue. Not the blues of sadness but the blues of life and new beginnings.

And he painted.
Painted as if his mind wasn't some blackboard that clung to each particle of chalk the way a hook clings onto it's loop. He painted knowing  that his only way of going blank, having a new again was by getting a new canvas. A new page of tempera. 

Dear Sven
I'm sorry for not being everything you needed
I'm sorry for failing to give you all the things I had
I'm sorry that saying sorry really isn't enough
But running away to go on some world hike wasn't the solution
You know that

A sorry followed by a but. Worst apology in his books really. Worst way to word something. But anyways Mui wasn't that good of a writer. She wrote with images. Images that he assumed she made up in her own sick mind. A sick and twisted mind that turned the most grotesque thoughts into something beautiful. Something palatable. Human. Warm. Bright.

The complete opposite of her truth.

There was so much that had happened between Sven and his sister. Too much to go through now, especially given the situation he was in. He stared at the tarp of his tent before he set his paint brush down on his pallet.

It seemed like a good tarp. No fraying or other signs of wear and tear. But he knew that as soon as another member fell for the farce the collectors put on, he'd get the lower quality tents. Maybe he'd even be forced to sleep outside. Loathing the sky and the celestial bodies that got to comfortably rest in it. Blaming them for his gullibility.

You see? Collectors weren't people that recruited workers genuinely. They were deceptive oppressors who spent their days tricking the vulnerable into forced labor. They were forced to work on farms and illegal mines unpaid, in exchange for basic necessities like food , clothing and shelter.

When he first met them, they had presented themselves as missionaries. Mormons, put on earth to spread Gods message. His beliefs hadn't aligned with theirs so immediately, their eager jubilation had been met with his skepticism.

Reluctantly however, he had agreed to trek with them. They promised him everything he had today, food, shelter and clothing. Though he had everything, the work was someone that came unexpected. Ofcourse he knew that them not wanting anything in return would be implausible. But aren't those who do God's work paid in a good moral compass and some human satisfaction coming from the fact that they've enriched someone's life? Isn't there something in their hearts that compensates their kindness? Something other than the suffering and toil of others.

He asked himself these questions as he stared into the obsidian tarp. The tarp that reminded him of his sister's eye's. Hard, resielient and haughty. Always looking at you as though they're expectant. Wishing for you to pull yourself out of whatever it is you're going through. Pompous but human. Kind. Apologetic even.  Eyes that say "look, as much as I would love to hoist you out of this hole. Most of your problems are self inflicted."

Eye's that abandon.

Then write you letters.

Some long and poorly worded. Like scribes.  Transcripts written during meetings between aristocrats. And other jackasses.
He smiled at that. She was really a jackass. Others short and sweet. Brainy. Even poetic.

He wrote her letters back but never sent them. She wanted him gone after all. He might as well have spent his life feigning his own death. Not really feigning in his case. Just living out his own death.

That's how he looked at his life. A prolonged, dragged out death.

He felt his stomach growl. Felt the cold nip at the surface of his skin. Felt himself sink deeper into the soft futon that acted as his mattress. He swallowed some saliva as he couldn't eat as long as it wasn't meal time.

And meals were scarce. Consisting of prunes and dried fish and cranberries. Some days consisting of thick, sweet porridges made of cornmeal and tender goat meat. Those were luxurious days. The beginnings that he held onto on nights that threatened to be his end. Food ran out gradually. And they weren't allowed to eat the yields they harvested.

By they, he meant him, Mina and Hawkens. And the others ofcourse. They were nine of them. But he assumed at the concentration camps they were many more. He just happened to be designated as a trekkor. A nomadic farmer that harnest whatever precipitation there was and in whatever form and made something out of it. Made something useful. To the aristocrats. The collectors.

And the jackasses.