Hmm.
Everything is grey and tired, and sweet, and passing strange.
Closing time in the Deep Blue Lounge. Time to place the chairs on the tables, blow out the cold blue candles, escort the ghosts and drunks and failed loves to the door, and chain it shut behind us. And let the bodies laying in the corners rot.
It was a beautiful place in the beginning; it hosted the most fabulous parties, boisterous debates, readings and fiery prosthelytizing, and of course it had it's fair share of afterhours sex. Beautiful nights were spent on the balcony over looking the river, a cerulean moon shining down on lovers whispering lies and truth and lovesongs to each other. Enimies were made and strangers transmuted to friends. Romance and madness were found in the club's halls at all hours of the evening. The Labyrinthe's entities would visit occasionally, to be feted and feasted; Though the hall was entirely for and of Indigo, accomodations were made for the appetites of the Combine, be it they desired water, wine, blood, or fire. Even the Librarian was fond of it, and would spend hours there, devouring his books one page at a time.
This was not true of certain others, though.
Tad felt it was doomed from the beginning, and set off to find a path through the desert that surrounded the labyrinthe, like Marco Polo across the Gobi Desert. He left before it began, and by the time he returned, it was dust and silence, only wrackage left inside. Even in the beginning, The Childe was frightened of the place, and would never go inside. s/He merely sat in an alcove made from fallen pillars, just outside of the light, and stroked the Mantis's emerald shell, s/His eys shining in the dark.
The Phoenix had a booth reserved there, no expense spared. It had a velvet rope , and velvet cushions, and a silver bucket of chilled kerosene always set aside for It's appearances. It would spend the evenings roiling and smoking amongst the black velvet and cold stone, and on those nights there would be such fire...
...But the Phoenix turned Dark, and then never returned, except perhaps when the lounge was deserted. Maybe It would come back then, when the halls were empty, and dusty, and alone. Perhaps the Dark Phoenix sat in the same booth as it's bright twin, and drank dust and bitterness, consuming itself alone in the dark. But then again, perhaps not.
In the end, some made it a home, some a place of play, and Indigo would play host, charming and arrogant and smooth as hate.
But like all things, this too was to fade. There's no need to relate the story. Why describe rot? Why retell a blow by blow of the destruction of a fragile system. Why recount the details of the failure of a system created and designed with so many obvious integral weaknessess ignored?
The bridge fell, people died. The sun kept it's planets warm until it collapsed, and chewed them to dust. The linchpin snapped and the child flew off the carousel, c'est la vivre...
As Vonnegut would say, say it goes.
So here I am again, at the beginning, locked outside of my sole lover's labyrinthe, and closing the doors on a vast wing of my own.
But I do it sleeker, and blacker. Cleaner than before. Just a simple twist of an iron key, and a door closes. Just as easily, other gates will open. They simply require the twist of a key.
And I have a hundred keys.
A hundred names.
A hundred charms.
Twist the key.
And I do it with a smile.
Every door sealed is a distant door opened.
There are no dead ends in my Labyrinthe, except for the one in the center, and we left The One in the Oubliette long ago. Maybe we'll find a big enough hammer. Maybe we'll find a secret map. Maybe we'll find a key to open a door that doesn't exist.
But in the meantime, we must survive, and smile, and bleed others as we ourselves have bled.
Sleek, black, soft as stone, hard as honey, still just as lethal but no longer lost,
I twist the key, slide the ring into my coat, and walk with staccato steps decisively into the Dusted Halls. they will lead to new paths chosen, which will lead to paths never traveled, which will lead who knows where, on the slow walk back towards hope.
I will own my own desmesne.
Mmm. The dust smells like Home.
Bien Viendos
You ain't been blue; no, no, no.
You ain't been blue,
Till you've had that mood indigo.
That feelin' goes stealin' down to my shoes
While I sit and sigh, "Go 'long blues".
Always get that mood indigo,
Since my baby said goodbye.
In the evenin' when lights are low,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.
'Cause there's nobody who cares about me,
I'm just a soul who's
bluer than blue can be.
When I get that mood indigo,
I could lay me down and die.
Everything is grey and tired, and sweet, and passing strange.
Closing time in the Deep Blue Lounge. Time to place the chairs on the tables, blow out the cold blue candles, escort the ghosts and drunks and failed loves to the door, and chain it shut behind us. And let the bodies laying in the corners rot.
It was a beautiful place in the beginning; it hosted the most fabulous parties, boisterous debates, readings and fiery prosthelytizing, and of course it had it's fair share of afterhours sex. Beautiful nights were spent on the balcony over looking the river, a cerulean moon shining down on lovers whispering lies and truth and lovesongs to each other. Enimies were made and strangers transmuted to friends. Romance and madness were found in the club's halls at all hours of the evening. The Labyrinthe's entities would visit occasionally, to be feted and feasted; Though the hall was entirely for and of Indigo, accomodations were made for the appetites of the Combine, be it they desired water, wine, blood, or fire. Even the Librarian was fond of it, and would spend hours there, devouring his books one page at a time.
This was not true of certain others, though.
Tad felt it was doomed from the beginning, and set off to find a path through the desert that surrounded the labyrinthe, like Marco Polo across the Gobi Desert. He left before it began, and by the time he returned, it was dust and silence, only wrackage left inside. Even in the beginning, The Childe was frightened of the place, and would never go inside. s/He merely sat in an alcove made from fallen pillars, just outside of the light, and stroked the Mantis's emerald shell, s/His eys shining in the dark.
The Phoenix had a booth reserved there, no expense spared. It had a velvet rope , and velvet cushions, and a silver bucket of chilled kerosene always set aside for It's appearances. It would spend the evenings roiling and smoking amongst the black velvet and cold stone, and on those nights there would be such fire...
...But the Phoenix turned Dark, and then never returned, except perhaps when the lounge was deserted. Maybe It would come back then, when the halls were empty, and dusty, and alone. Perhaps the Dark Phoenix sat in the same booth as it's bright twin, and drank dust and bitterness, consuming itself alone in the dark. But then again, perhaps not.
In the end, some made it a home, some a place of play, and Indigo would play host, charming and arrogant and smooth as hate.
But like all things, this too was to fade. There's no need to relate the story. Why describe rot? Why retell a blow by blow of the destruction of a fragile system. Why recount the details of the failure of a system created and designed with so many obvious integral weaknessess ignored?
The bridge fell, people died. The sun kept it's planets warm until it collapsed, and chewed them to dust. The linchpin snapped and the child flew off the carousel, c'est la vivre...
As Vonnegut would say, say it goes.
So here I am again, at the beginning, locked outside of my sole lover's labyrinthe, and closing the doors on a vast wing of my own.
But I do it sleeker, and blacker. Cleaner than before. Just a simple twist of an iron key, and a door closes. Just as easily, other gates will open. They simply require the twist of a key.
And I have a hundred keys.
A hundred names.
A hundred charms.
Twist the key.
And I do it with a smile.
Every door sealed is a distant door opened.
There are no dead ends in my Labyrinthe, except for the one in the center, and we left The One in the Oubliette long ago. Maybe we'll find a big enough hammer. Maybe we'll find a secret map. Maybe we'll find a key to open a door that doesn't exist.
But in the meantime, we must survive, and smile, and bleed others as we ourselves have bled.
Sleek, black, soft as stone, hard as honey, still just as lethal but no longer lost,
I twist the key, slide the ring into my coat, and walk with staccato steps decisively into the Dusted Halls. they will lead to new paths chosen, which will lead to paths never traveled, which will lead who knows where, on the slow walk back towards hope.
I will own my own desmesne.
Mmm. The dust smells like Home.
Bien Viendos
You ain't been blue; no, no, no.
You ain't been blue,
Till you've had that mood indigo.
That feelin' goes stealin' down to my shoes
While I sit and sigh, "Go 'long blues".
Always get that mood indigo,
Since my baby said goodbye.
In the evenin' when lights are low,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.
'Cause there's nobody who cares about me,
I'm just a soul who's
bluer than blue can be.
When I get that mood indigo,
I could lay me down and die.