2005
Sic Transit Caeruleus (…blue fades…)
[Yeah, so, I decided I'm going to put further thought into this month's question before I answer it. I have an idea... but I figure I'll see what else I can come up with. In the meantime, I just finished this for my writing course and I really enjoyed it, I thought you all might too. I don't think the meanings/layers will be lost on you. xox, TR.]
Everything is blue. A primary colour royal enough to play favourites. She only works in blues and blacks and whites. She has no tolerance for the less vibrant. She lives out her ruin more artistic, an every day spitting tacks volatile beautiful machine. She mixes mediums like the rules never applied. The acrylic cracks and dries. The ink bleeds like an otherworld wound. Splatter, sigh, decline. In her studio, only two of seven lights work because she smashed the other five and stained them with crushed charcoal and dye like electrified blueberries.
Her fingers tattoo and manipulate the wood tool. An icicle feat with a fatalistic beat. The art of no in-betweens. She rolls down her stockings as she rolls up her sleeves. Painting the town blue with horse hair dashes and midnight schemes. Moonshine apocalypse hiding just behind her teeth. An aquamarine fissure shifting the earth’s tectonic plates; a girlquake. And then she leaves. Like a magnet she takes the whole of the apartment with her when she only meant to take her watch, before forgetting the object among the remnants of a midnight dream, as if it didn’t matter. Two truths and a lie. After all, her own hand tracks the seconds.
She steps onto the navy sidewalk searching out fuel for her art addiction. Levels the sky to the ground as she screams in azure. She exists as a thousand different girls with the same face, injecting sapphires into her veins. The heroine of her own life, blueblooded and denim-drenched, trying to take on the throne for the crown. A sole survivor; all the others are in jail. Or dead. Society has rules against heroes these days. Time perpetually slips under blue and she forgot her watch. Her choice, the lesser of two diseases.
Spit her out something pretty, a myth to hide behind. She comes home fat as a tick, swollen with lapis lazuli conversations and sighs the size of the Eagle Nebula. She has a muse she named Insomnia and a lover she calls Chance. In her reality, god is spelled e-x-c-u-s-e and she practices atheism. A Venus in blue, she romances the world and the world belongs to her. The whole fucking thing, in cobalt and cadet, in cerulean and cyan. In coal and cinder, in china and cloud. A girl named Revolution just taking everyone else through her own Blue Period: her funeral shroud.
by toni riot
