There arent that many answers as to why we are the way we are as a human race. There is truly no justification for our existence. All we know is that our one goal should be to exist freely. Though we may forever be bound by the laws of normalcy.
Smile- Jimmy Durane
Brionny
So she moved through the shadows. Leaving behind her a trail of gasoline. When the screamers started, everything went in slow motion. The flames rose higher as she bolted for the main gate. Luckily it was harvest day, so no prisoners were in cells. All that existed were their single beds, single blankets and single pillows. Crimson red wool that faded to a deep black that slowly rose to a white yellow light and fell to grey ash. Beds of cotton that morphed to heaps of ash. The moment the screamers sang their sing song ode to ice flames that swallowed whatever was in their path.
The towers remained firmly erect as the flames climbed whatever flammable material they could find. Which happened to be the beds and the heaps of fire wood in the kitchen. Even the workers stall of stained silks and hardwood stands. Whatever was made of stone, the infernal burnt sienna blaze couldn't eradicate. The screamers sang even louder as they, along with their hawkers perished in the flames. Screaming even louder and revealing their rows of teeth. Teeth that borderline shattered every time they sang their sing song ode to ice.
Her heart seared as she bolted through the unlocked gates, leaving the other ninety nine prisoners running in the opposite direction as well as the hawkers that had survived. She looked at the infernal blaze of burnt sienna as it kissed the damp azure of the sky and faded to nothing beyond the stratosphere but a funnel of ash and smog.
Once she was far enough to unsee the heaps of ash she was guilty of creating, she started to stroll. Until the heat in her chest faded to a warm and dull tightness.She walked about a five miles until she ate her sardines and dried cranberries, then walked into Parms inn. The inn was sparsely furnished but had a pool and a bar where Brionny pimped herself out to a twenty five year old buisness man who called himself Four. She liked him a lot. Not only did he have enough money to get her an individual room but he was good at fucking her too. And the pay was substantial. Five hundred nervian dollars as well as a one night stay in the inn for free.
They didnt have any heart to hearts, he only spoke of himself and how he was a sophisticate cheating on his husband Roderick with women. Roderick was a famous painter. He was a contemporary artist of abstract art meant to depict mental illnesses using paint. He was good at it. Depicting the flaws of the human mind using colour. From eminence to concord to jonquil to fuchsia to canary and cadmium.
Bipolar disorder: He represented it by drawing out a human skull on which one side was invaded by butterflies. And the other by vines that seemed to never stop. Vines that resembled limbs stretching to areas way beyond the lettersize paper. The butterflies represented the synchronized fluttering and wavy sensations that accompanied the deppression. The speed at which they fluttered their wings was so high that one may have misconceived them as representative of the temporary blindness and racing thoughts of a manic episode. But no, the butterflies in this context represented the pieces of ones soul that were lulled by the sadness. Anchored by the lethargic sinkings. The vines represented the almost endless nature that characterized the thoughts of a manic episode. The painting was black and white, to represent that with such a disorder ones days were forever dreary.
Obsessive compulsive disorder: He represented it by drawing out two palms with doors and windows ajar etched into them. Probably to signify how such objects or components of a home could overshadow ones mind. Took up most of their thoughts more than in that of an ordinary human being. Emphasis on the word ordinary because the standards of sanity in our society are low enough for crazy to be considered the normal.
Schizophrenia: This one being the most stigmatized was just as dramatically depicted as the other two only that it wasn't monochromatic. It was multichromatic. An upper torso decorated with palms touching it all over. It was grotesquely coloured with blacks and reds that looked almost fleshy. Im assuming it was meant to symbolize how vulnerable your hypersensitivity makes you. Its almost like walking in salt without the visceral layer of your skin. The stinging being that of failing to fit into society without eeling out of body. Like a chess piece off a chess board. If thats even a normal comparison.
It was only in the theatre that I lived. It was only the theatre that I lived freely. Existed freely. Even though I was an enigma. It was only in the boxy fonts and the fabricated personalities that I found the parts of myself that are missing.
The words of the beloved Oscar Wilde stared at her as she read through them, serenading her. As if taunting and condemning her for being newly uncumbered. So Brionny stared at the Nervia theatre poster a splodge of azure and cyan imagery. Her chest and heart seared as she scrunched it up and forced it into the pocket of her orange jumpsuit. The theme of the nights ball for those who were not performing was synonyms of blue.
Blue in Nervia represented many things. Utility being one of the things, or should I say the main thing as its whats we all strive to be at a collective. Blue represented the calm and comfortable of aristocracy. The aristocracy that she so desperately craved, the one she dreamt of fucking her way to. Once she was done with Four she made her way to the other room, it was a spacious room with a queen bed and a cashmere byzantine blanket and aubergine pillows.
Ariem put on a layer of foundation as he got prepared for the ball. The directors ball to be more precise. The perfect event for him to pitch a script or even network with the hollywood big shots. He took one more look at himself and like in every mirror scene, he complemented the outfit he was clad in. His icy hair was gelled back and his eyebrows freshly trimmed. He was clad in a persimonn tuxedo with a bisque blouse with a white cascade neckline. He looked boho chic. Eclectic even.
The spotlight shone on him as the outer world paused and allowed him to do his individual dialogue. The red velvet curtains, pulled away as he was exposed to an austere audience of cashmere and emeralds.
I happen to love my father quite a lot
He happened to portray a myriad of identities to me
He happened to be both my mother and father
And Im sure he got tired of the saying
That those who cant do teach
But you see, he did quite a lot
He danced along to the song. Pirouetted a little from one edge to the other. His cashmere moccasin's, which happened to be accented with some of the best suede in the industry clung to the dust that adorned the hardwood floors as though one was hoop and the other loop. He outstretched his limbs as he waltz by himself. Then he did jazz hands.
I happen to love my father quite a lot
He happened to do many things
In fact if I could credit him in my end credits, I would
But Im too greedy for that
And most of my films are but only a dream
Intangible, easily forgotten, to be made alive in the imagination
And only in the imagination
The studio of kick dancers came onto stage and the spotlight moved onto them. The dark adorned him, as well as a shadow of jealousy. He waltzed again, this time into the light.
My dialogues aren't as intellectual
My screenplay is mediocre
But my vision is that of a visionary
Of one conspiring to entertain
With images that are built
Built in the hippocampus of your brain
The kick dancers waltzed away with him. Kicking to the beat of the song.
He blinked as the audience burst into a round of animated applause. An applause that sounded similar to a waterfall of grains of rice falling onto a sheet of metal. A reverberative hum of approval. A myriad of garnet and maraschino fled from the stage and he was left alone once more. He felt the elation of the crowd so deeply that his heart fell to his stomach after lurching back and forth. As though it was a bullet in the third world war being flung from one target to the next.
He wasn't a performer by nature. He was a screenplay writer not a performer, but he enjoyed every second he spent on stage. Every second he spent dancing in his jubilation on hardwood floors that had been a polished until they reflected more than a surface image. Until they reflected a sort of alternate universe, a sort of inverted version of all that existed in the world of tangibility. And of deception. He stepped off the stage and went to higher altitudes by climbing the flight of stairs. He admired the circular theatre from above.
Just like the colour change of the city, the colour change of the theatre was concentric. The circular arrangement of the chairs in the very centre was bordeaux red whilst the arrangement of chairs at the perimeter was a mixture of crimson and garnet. The carpet was an unusual shade of bisque that surprisingly went well with the seats. The theatre was located in a tall tower, a tower taller than even the three story towers of the jail tower. I might be exaggerating when I say this but it even may have might as well kissed the clouds.
It might as well have flipped them off and gone beyond them too.
Why?
Well because thats what towers are for. Their meant to enable us of giving us the comfort of sleeping in the sky without being dead.
Vorissa Sekana watched Ariem from a distance. Elated beyond measure to see her long lost childhood friend. He looked impeccable to her, dressed in his tuxedo. It was her turn to perform, she was a ballet dancer so she did a contemporary dance routine to the song table for two by Abel Korzeniowski. She started with a arabesque pose en pointe. Then flowed into a pirouette. She then proceeded to re-enact Igor Stravinskys 'Finale' firebird. She was clad in a black leotard and meshie tights dark blue chiffon gymnastics wrap skirt and had her hair up in a bun with the two front pieces out and curled.
He watched her from the audience, happy to be reunited with someone from the arts just as he was. Someone from his passed. When nightfall fell and an impermeable darkness bled into the sky they finally spoke.
She felt a heat rise in between her legs as he eyed her up in her leotard and meshie tights. The darkness in the sky couldnt match the darkness in her eyes. The pthalo of arousal in her irises.
"How long has it been since youve felt genuinely happy?"
"Exactly a year."
"You?"
"Same"
Like the dialogue in Ariems scripts they lacked any intellectuality. But never any chemistry. In fact the heat between the both of them was as hot as the burnt sienna inferno that Brionny had created in order to escape the prison. They spent the whole night together, talking of their chidhood and indulging in a variety of sorbets that were served at the theatre as well as the variety of cold meats, cheeses and dried fruits presented in the individual food packs provided.
The moonlight was enough illumination, but even in the darkness theyd still remain each others twin flame.
Why?
Because all flames rise higher in the night.