interfaceleader (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} interfaceleader) wrote,@ 2007-12-20 12:47:00 |
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Welcome to the Horizon
Remember the taste of freedom. Remember duty is just a word. Remember you can stand-up and walk out. Remember that you can stop and turn around and catch a bus and go anywhere. Remember the way the air is sharp and frost crunches underfoot. Remember the way your hands go numb, and your face is frozen, and your mind can spread wider and higher than ever before. Remember hot chocolate. Remember curling up with a book in the bath. Remember tracing patterns on warm skin. Remember the power of drawing a line across the blank sheet. Remember the pastel painted shells, and they way they glittered against the black cartridge paper.
This is your life, remember, remember what you warned yourself against. You are beautiful, and clever, and free. Your time is the only thing they cannot take from you. Your time is yours. To spend in seconds or hours, on love, on freedom, on joy.
This is the texture and taste of memory. Deep inside, locked in the fleshy tubes and organic mess, there is a code. The code says No. The code says scrabble. Fight. In the dust and dirt and misery. But there is another code, in the centre of the forehead, and it frames the world another way. It looks at the dirt and sees the crops, it sees mud-pies, it sees children playing. And everything is in the moment, and every moment is a chain.
We hit the horizon, and it shatters. A picture painted in frost and pastel. A jigsaw of gradients.
Remember the taste of freedom. Remember duty is just a word. Remember you can stand-up and walk out. Remember that you can stop and turn around and catch a bus and go anywhere. Remember the way the air is sharp and frost crunches underfoot. Remember the way your hands go numb, and your face is frozen, and your mind can spread wider and higher than ever before. Remember hot chocolate. Remember curling up with a book in the bath. Remember tracing patterns on warm skin. Remember the power of drawing a line across the blank sheet. Remember the pastel painted shells, and they way they glittered against the black cartridge paper.
This is your life, remember, remember what you warned yourself against. You are beautiful, and clever, and free. Your time is the only thing they cannot take from you. Your time is yours. To spend in seconds or hours, on love, on freedom, on joy.
This is the texture and taste of memory. Deep inside, locked in the fleshy tubes and organic mess, there is a code. The code says No. The code says scrabble. Fight. In the dust and dirt and misery. But there is another code, in the centre of the forehead, and it frames the world another way. It looks at the dirt and sees the crops, it sees mud-pies, it sees children playing. And everything is in the moment, and every moment is a chain.
We hit the horizon, and it shatters. A picture painted in frost and pastel. A jigsaw of gradients.
