The Unquiet Void

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He stood by the building. Light like a nascent flame, bare white for all its potential – but outside kept itself darker than what is unknowable. It was into this ignorance that he gazed and from it nothing or perhaps nothingness emanated. The light told of a familiarity that he could not stand. So he moved into darkness and let what might be encountered and found be, unmolested by anticipation. A snail died underfoot and its just dead limb retracted, fleeing into a memory, the death and life colliding in the performance of a habit. In the surrounding blackness ideas, organs, half-remembered pictures, disasters of war, depths and heights impossibly so near and so withdrawn. The truth looked at him, from just above his eye line; in the trees, eyes hiding, crepuscular somebodies in the employ of a comatose god. He did not care to look back at a light now blinding and only plunged his self forward, ever forward, no fear, no pretence, no death – into a conscious sleep.

What he might have called nightmares become his world, all, and there was no negotiation to be done, no choice given of acceptance or opposition. His gaze presented no barrier to things which had wished to be unthought and which got their energy from unseen perverse pools. Lobes of brain burnt and were not replaced until later. He dwelled in a time and land incomplete, with glitches and problems, stuck in valleys, absurd and ephemeral. Tomorrow was a memory. And laughter raved in his chest and left no trace in the world.

The end.

_____________

Words by Ryan Boyd

Photo by Anya Shiller

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So that’s it, the world is changed once more. How quickly do you wipe away the tears, and delve deep into that familiar mundane lifestyle? I should take out the trash, I got to fix my bike, my car is off the road again… I should wash some clothes, maybe later. Maybe after I am done lying here on the floor, I shut everything out, concentrate on the heat I can feel across my face, and the silence that’s being brought to me by the soft amber light filtering through my closed eyelids. Moments pass, I shut down memories before they gather momentum until there is the one thought I was looking for. I remember a dream that I had last night. The last night I spent with the one I love. I wandered in to some white austere room that held the manner of some mediterranean villa, one glass table with nothing on it, white large tiles on the floor, an empty large bed. I spin round, take it all in. I then see myself laying there reading a book, I can’t say much more than this only that I perceive it to be, and reading aloud, sunlight penetrates the closed blinds that wrap around the room, all is silent except for my voice. Patterns begin to shift, rays of light dance as if the world outside is spinning with the sun, slowly first, as time goes on. Still reading out the words that are incomprehensible, the other me senses this and reads louder, but it doesn’t help, sounds of static start to build and develops in to storms of traffic, trains passing, I’m still laying there shouting the words, straining my lungs now, all of which is still difficult to discern, the world outside is flying by. Full speed is realised, my head starts to spin as the severity from the assault on my senses by witnessing this scene becomes too much. Watching myself screaming these words as if preaching some indecipherable scripture, as the lightning like bursts from the swirling sun outside and that cacophony of noise pervades all I am drowned in calm and equal amounts of terror as if being hurled through space, yet attached to something, an invisible wire on one singular path…

I wake to the morning lit room and the softness of an unknown bed. I wake to look in to her closed eyes, I shift closer, forever closer. Unreality intact.

Stains on my sleeves, I remember the mornings made you nauseous.

I don’t know where to start.

Fire couldn’t hold your hair in that abyss like darkness that surrounded us outside the car. Amber lamp light drifted in through the dried rain stains and summer dust upon the windows. 2am, sounds of light rain as we watched in our black leather seats, your body crossed over the gear shift, on to mine. Chairs pulled back to allow us the view of nothing, the starlight buried in its mountain like disguise, the night was never alone, he silently breathed, life radiating, legs are falling asleep, I’ll turn the pain over to the night, then there where no words spoken, time can cease, no distractions from our voices, free of smiles. Life could not engulf us.

Sit with nothing to grip
Only the obscure eliminations
and ships that cometh with the tides
destined to sink like the moon
The alerted night rightly arises
swinging its archaic sabres mowing the refracted light
blinding wolves and their twisted wooden gaze
Hunting down the fluorescent ocean
Phosphorescence omnipresent performing under the galactic ceiling
Whilst the scientist attempts no true religion
Wheeling home a rusted bike amidst the crowds, bitten half to death.
Foresight is hurtled towards the past
The now is forever too distant to be held
But hold it you will, to lay beneath paradise
The desert tugs at your silken sleeves
Untouched by dust and beloved rains
Through and through, rewards are yielded when the soul is left
So in between, divinity may fill that void
emanating in selflessness, pursuing an awakening
Eyes are looked into, fighting over all that is without
Daylight imposed on all yet hidden by the sun
overshadowed by the ingloriousness of personality.

How does one watch them dance?
Across the stage of serpents tongues
Entangled with the silver dusted scales,
Abiding by the wisdom, winding,
Elegantly in its quivering tail,
Stillness envelops it but once,
How does it still till the earth
in all godliness?

Photographs by Daniel Grant; words by Daniel Grant.

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Dusk’s own version of sunlight reflected onto her cornea. The dull red tones shifted and played in the recesses of her eye; the light penetrated down and sifted through muscles and lenses and fizzed dimly along nerves and hit upon the surface of her brainflesh and soon perished in among the thorns. What love dies in this hollow, what deaths of memories are contained within this graveyard. And just as the sun’s beams fail to penetrate the solid cold earth of the depths, so love was used up too soon to burn and calcify the corpses of egos and memories long killed yet still undead and which dwelled within her, malevolent tenants. The sun sat upon the globe, ever slipping away, ever eliding the dreams of its devotees. The chill of the world set in and the birds cried out, and the earth began to withdraw in on itself. She sat at the window and felt this chill within her soul. A familiar deadening, a numbness; but so too a harsh wind which harasses the extremities of even the most advanced paraesthesia. Interminable thought uncovering crevices and defiles, probing where it was not wanted. Everything somehow calling back in an unstoppable chain to it. At such a moment she could only close her eyes tightly; the burning of the temples and wrought muscles trying to erase it in the blinding whiteness of the retina. Yet it always managed to escape its own death, always managed to avoid the evisceration so longed for. It always returned back to its place, its place in time; sitting, squat and grinning and ever more meaningless and traumatic.

The echoing green of the world grew dim and was snuffed out by the dark of the night. Distant traffic but otherwise a stillness which threatened to grow deafening. Her skin prickled and tears grew and bled out hot from corners. She lay there fully clothed with the covers pulled over herself and the dark whiteness of the room pressing in on her and her throat tightened and clenched. Thought mercifully disengaged itself and her heart skipped its beat and some sort of slipping away occurred; a moment of dumbness dwelled in with gratitude. Unconsciousness.

The earth spun round constant and unthinking. In the tortured respite of sleep her eyelids flickered and dashed and the world pivoted around her; the sun grew hot, water flowed and words were uttered. A day seeped from the earth mundane, intolerable and insistent and caught her up in its skirts without her accord. She awoke, dream-inducing chemicals still rolling around her brain. In that precious and uncanny moment of disorder, in the interstice between dream and waking, Future made itself known and projected dimly into the Present utopias which remained obscure yet which promised something unnameable. And though Dawn duly rushed in and the tyranny of memory reasserted, ever thus, hope lay stuck fast; an indistinct glimmer deep within her.

Photographs by Rafael Milani; words by Ryan Boyd.

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