Brian Moser (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
all_he_saw) wrote2008-11-14 07:40 pm
all_he_saw) wrote2008-11-14 07:40 pm
(no subject)
[Notes: Purely random. Mmyep. Faintly inspired by my recent musings on the lackluster third book but honestly not related to it in the least.]
He'd long since reached an easy peace with it-- that piece of his self that wasn't himself, that part apart. There was no questioning, no unease; no divide between the man and the artist-animal shadow of his soul.
Certainly it was merely a manifestation of psychosis; it doesn't do, to speak to oneself or imagine oneself spoken to, whispered to; to feel the slick sick silken urges come not from a bruised mind, but from some other force within one. Even as a child he'd known better than to tell his doctors he heard voices. He was damaged; not stupid; not a fool, though maybe a madman.
People who believed something was speaking to them were merely afraid to accept the consequences of recognizing the words as their own. There were no words, for Brian; just the sweet inchoate whisper, soothing and stirring him to restless frenzy. He had a handle on his own madness, knew his need from bleeding root to brilliant flower. The logical progression did nothing to still the wonder of it, though; comprehending the reasons did not lessen the obsession. Holding the memory of days spent together, hands clasped til the knuckles cracked in the cold coppery air as tightly as he held the blade, he watched them die with childlike focus and fascination.
His brother, had he known it, would speak of the dark passenger. He would have laughed; Brian had only Brian. Everything else had been taken from him; and his heart called for blood, and for blood. Contrast and saturation. Hot in the icy air, spreading across the floor; his canvas, his art.
He'd long since reached an easy peace with it-- that piece of his self that wasn't himself, that part apart. There was no questioning, no unease; no divide between the man and the artist-animal shadow of his soul.
Certainly it was merely a manifestation of psychosis; it doesn't do, to speak to oneself or imagine oneself spoken to, whispered to; to feel the slick sick silken urges come not from a bruised mind, but from some other force within one. Even as a child he'd known better than to tell his doctors he heard voices. He was damaged; not stupid; not a fool, though maybe a madman.
People who believed something was speaking to them were merely afraid to accept the consequences of recognizing the words as their own. There were no words, for Brian; just the sweet inchoate whisper, soothing and stirring him to restless frenzy. He had a handle on his own madness, knew his need from bleeding root to brilliant flower. The logical progression did nothing to still the wonder of it, though; comprehending the reasons did not lessen the obsession. Holding the memory of days spent together, hands clasped til the knuckles cracked in the cold coppery air as tightly as he held the blade, he watched them die with childlike focus and fascination.
His brother, had he known it, would speak of the dark passenger. He would have laughed; Brian had only Brian. Everything else had been taken from him; and his heart called for blood, and for blood. Contrast and saturation. Hot in the icy air, spreading across the floor; his canvas, his art.