After days lost to the inane, I found myself fortunate enough to encounter a passing ship of relevancy in the night. Studies, candle-lit to prevent the mind’s fluorescent demise — that’s when I saw it. Right between the nearly identical roots for war and beauty, there was a card reading “ambi-”: what’s all around, what’s on both sides.
Through our common threads of agony we form a rising tide. While the masks may look different across lands, what’s underneath runs universal throughout the human condition.
It’s what’s all around, it’s what’s on both sides.
As Long as I Can (BR) – Overcoming the Existence (2017)
We begin to give way from the banister in a steady spin, making sense of our legs through momentum-supported balance. Gradually, we teeter off; absent, unaware. Falling out of line has proved to be a complementary accent that paints others as a portrait of pegs supporting our delusions of greatness. Within the sea sickness we come to swallow, the chase becomes clouded with manifestation. Unconfronted, our hearts fly while savoring eyes-shut rapture, awakening a pull heavy enough to keep us anchored from the edge of White. Sputtering off into feigned eternity, turbulence strikes cinderblock as inflamed heartstrings demand rest. What lies below abruptly cracks as we are left boxing with limbs stretched languorously until any fathom of autonomy can no longer be entertained.
Krestfallen (AU) – Vol. 1: Wanderlust (2017)
Through the portal of our own daydreams, we find ourselves carefully constructing a predestined reality, threaded into the fabric of fantasy. External lights encase a visceral snow. Strewn and rooted so meanderingly linear, they cease only with a nonconsensual breach of concentration. But, meditation is only temporarily stolen once we reach the freedom of four walls, our mind dissolving the sunken box to unveil the potential of every corner of consciousness. It is within one corner we often become entrapped, beaten by the throws of a single schema — familiar faces peering into coffin, but never tomb; infatuated breaths doubled over the garden, but never the cliff. And so, the body, vulnerable, aching for slumber, becomes the ideal conduit for the repressed mind.
Portrait Drawer (SK) – His Silence (2017)
At the hour of our Death, a mirrorless room screams reflection — reverberations raising us half-massed from the guile of slumber. We discover ourselves crippled, not with fear, but with rotten stitches used to tether wounds dug in sunlight and bled in the absence of luster. Washed with fermented antiseptic, pain is dulled, but infection curdles and floods. Eyelids flutter to gain visions of a grin falling into a jaw jagged beyond human recognition. To blindness, we turn — to the safety that stings as the cool subdues. Our sins are etched into the lines of our faces, but little does the Fool know, sins are not defined with the same steadfast lines.
A Pale December (IT) – The Shrine of Primal Fire (2017)
And as the last shard of debris falls from the Quiet Witness, we run from our respective tunnels and forests and to the reckoning of the coasts. Aboard, we ride with hands grasping straws from which we refuse to disbond. Rocked by snow blindness painted grey and blue, we are overcome with the sight of one great mass against which we can project our personal manifestations of impending horizon. Against the beat of gelid waters that refuse to gel, the drums entrenched in an irrational hope to survive and a shrewd yearning to thrive propel the journey forward. The end remains unwritten in its unimportance, while the ride laces the package containing all from which we sought to run.
For more melding of metal and macabre, visit nofastbands.tumblr.com, reviving fall 2017