Tempo di vita :: Standalone / Libertines & Ripleys
Jul 2, 2012 23:10:28 GMT -5
Post by meg. on Jul 2, 2012 23:10:28 GMT -5
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And I look at you, and I see me,
Making noise so restlessly,
But now it's quiet and I can hear you sing,
'My little fish don't cry, my little fish don't cry.' [/size]
KIPLING LIBERTINE
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That is my sister. Her name is Penelope. I watch as her body arcs backwards, the creshedo to the most beautiful piece of music that I've ever heard. Andante grazioso- slow, but graceful. The spear, her Achilles heel, stands proud. It would have to be one heck of a weapon to take her down. Even with it embedded in her face, she is still stunning, red hair flowing even as it is dyed by the ribbons of maroon that dance on her face. She’s on the floor now. It’s not until she’s lying there, last quivering breaths dying on her lips, that I realize she’s probably not going to come home.---
“Pen? Tell me about this one, Pen.” I proffer a shell in her face, curves smooth and undulating, the thing so heavy it takes both of my hands to hold it up. At that age, all I know is that some things are beautiful, and others are not. When I’ve got skinned knees, or when I’m hungry, that’s not. But this shell, and her face? They are. Pen, however, at four years my senior, at the grand old age of ten- she knows everything. She knows where things come from and how things work and how to get the cookie jar off the top shelf of the cupboard. She’s a genius, and when I grow up I want to be just like her.---
Today is the first time I’ve ever seen her be flawed. Ok, perhaps that’s not true- the words of a boy who wants to remember his Dead Sister as even more perfect than she already was. But her flaws, they made her who she was. Her scars, they stitched her together, made her whole. She was my sister. And I can’t believe I’m talking about her like this, like an entity that once was and now is not. Penelope Libertine is not my Dead Sister. She is my sister, who now just happens to be suffering from a little bit of death.
Do we get her body back? Will I get to speak to her once more, even if she cannot reply?Will they have the manners to fix her up, clean the blood off her face? Do I want them to? No. She would not be Pen if she were not soiled. It is the only way I know she’s human.Oh Kip, oh Kip, she’s not human any longer.Shut up. Shut up. Penelope Libertine will always be the best sort of human.
One. Two. Three. Breaths calando- growing softer. Boom. And now, there will be no more dreams. Pen, where are you? I know that answer. She is here, with me, yet she is so very far away. I tear my eyes off the district square’s screen, almost literally have to take my hands and push them away from the corpse that happens to belong to her. My legs rip at the ground, and I wish I could push it away, jump up to the sky and float away.
Suddenly, I’m at the beach, sand grating my feet in my socks, lungs working prestissimo. Quick fire breaths, one two, shallow and sandy bottomed, as if the air entering them is doing no work whatsoever. Perhaps the angry ocean in front of me would do a better job at calming me down, re-oxygenating my lungs. Dark clouds hang grumpily, as if they are about to cry at the pain of loosing her. Fair enough. Had I lost something as beautiful as her, I would probably cry too.
Wait a moment, Kipling- you have.
Oh. So be it. Rip her out of me, take away a slice of my bread-flesh and leave me here to starve. Oh, Penelope. You are no longer drowning, are you? You have swum to the surface and taken a gulp of sweet air into your leaden lungs. What does it taste like? Now, you are amongst the lucky ones. So be it. Rekindle the fire.
Once, I heard this tale about swans. They say that before they die, swans that have been silent their whole life sing one last song. The Swan Song is a thing full of graziono, of grace and beauty and infinity. Oh, Penelope, what I would give to hear you sing one last time.
But in some ways your life was your Swan Song. I was lucky to witness it, I guess. One of a kind, unique, the sort that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You were always destined to die now, weren’t you? Misterioso, my sister, mysterious.
Where am I to go from now? Oh, these questions, open ended, waiting for you. You were so often my question answerer. The thing is, I know the replies, I can hear what you’d say. Now, I am to become my own question answerer. Soldier on, tempo di marcia, eroico, heroically. You were my sergeant and now I am to step up, try and fill shoes that are far too big for me. I will grow though, won’t I? Yes. I will, I know I will.
If you were a piece of furniture that came into the shop, Pen, I’d be engrossed in you. Your value increased so much in the first sixteen years of your life. And I’d give anything, anything, to see you as an antique, to care for you, repolish and darn. I’ll never have that opportunity. But I was lucky to have you while it lasted, lucky to learn from you, lucky that you were my sister.
Now, your body lies on sand not unlike that which I sit upon. Your hair is splayed out, matted by your own blood. I was not meant to see you like this, to have this picture wound my mind. But your soul, it is breathing, cold fresh air brings life to you.
You lived vivace, Pen, and there isn’t even a word in our language that describes that. I think that suits you. You, my friend, were a conundrum. There is no such word as finity but you were one, a small portion of forever. Somewhere between never and forever. Undefined. You were a friend and a lover and a daughter. But mostly, you were my sister. You still are my sister. You always will be, Pen. Thank you.
“Oh, Penelope.”
Autumn leaves under frozen souls,
Hungry hands turning soft and old,
My hero cried as we stood out there in the cold,
[/color]Hungry hands turning soft and old,
My hero cried as we stood out there in the cold,
Like these autumn leaves I don't have nothing to hold. [/CENTER] [/size][/blockquote]