[he looks at Andersen, and faintly (an echo in another room) there are varied emotions rifled through like discarded clothing, a great disturbance and then the settling down of it all. pulled back, controlled - restrained into something manageable and enclosed in his fist.
authors are not creatures he can trust easily. he knows them, though, and again and again he's drawn to them. returning to the scene of a crime, circling it and pressing back down on bone deep bruises as if hoping for another conclusion. but Andersen is not that man, not the one to cut him to pieces - someone who heard his rage and let him speak instead of recording his words.
half man, half monster? how literal this is with this form, but how it speaks to his true self as well. how he is the shell of something like a man, and inside the marked one, righteous and damned at the same time. society, something he holds at arm's length but yet watches so closely. he lives in the shadows of the boundary, for there anything can happen, and there despair cries out for one thread of hope.
he's staring, Dantes realizes too late. staring as if Andersen's eyes will fill with a cruel mirth and there be some lie to it, some trick that he misses. but it doesn't come, and he feels disarmed, caught unawares. folding his hands, he lets the silence stretch on until he can bear it no longer.]
And what will you do, when you find that truth?
[when what remains of Edmond Dantes after he was rendered into pieces to make one man rich at his expense again? a character who is all too aware of his unreality, of the shouldn't that clings to his existence? can he still trust in something that is less than whole?]
no subject
authors are not creatures he can trust easily. he knows them, though, and again and again he's drawn to them. returning to the scene of a crime, circling it and pressing back down on bone deep bruises as if hoping for another conclusion. but Andersen is not that man, not the one to cut him to pieces - someone who heard his rage and let him speak instead of recording his words.
half man, half monster? how literal this is with this form, but how it speaks to his true self as well. how he is the shell of something like a man, and inside the marked one, righteous and damned at the same time. society, something he holds at arm's length but yet watches so closely. he lives in the shadows of the boundary, for there anything can happen, and there despair cries out for one thread of hope.
he's staring, Dantes realizes too late. staring as if Andersen's eyes will fill with a cruel mirth and there be some lie to it, some trick that he misses. but it doesn't come, and he feels disarmed, caught unawares. folding his hands, he lets the silence stretch on until he can bear it no longer.]
And what will you do, when you find that truth?
[when what remains of Edmond Dantes after he was rendered into pieces to make one man rich at his expense again? a character who is all too aware of his unreality, of the shouldn't that clings to his existence? can he still trust in something that is less than whole?]