Waterfalls
are pretty.
If that’s the last sight you see before you
die, at least it’s pretty.
Pretty like a grenade as it explodes and ruins
the night sky–splaying loose limbs and veins over the city. Pretty like an
overfilled tomb, stuffed of disintegrating corpses and rotting flesh– the kind
that drips off the bodies due to a leak in the pipes above creating water
damage. Pretty like road kill: the sweet, sweet sight of a mangled Pegasus. I
mean, yeah, maybe it was the last one in the world and it was “beautiful” but
it’s pretty with the tire tracks and dirt over its crippled wings. Waterfalls
are pretty; a pretty deep blue with stands of moss in it that may or may not
look like fish heads, like an air bag suffocating you, forcing your eyes to go
wide your lungs to lay empty. Waterfalls are pretty.
But you want to know what’s beautiful? Listening to the
sound of some poor, innocent, nonchalant, 3 year-old scream at the top of their
lungs just because they can. The way the shriek runs through you, up your spine,
and makes you shiver while wanting a knife to stab through your cranium and suddenly
become possessed. Beautiful is nails on a chalkboard; squeaking, scraping,
slowly . . . slowly sliding down, like metal scraping metal as sparks fly, so
that the sound makes your mind, your fingernails, and your stomach, hurt. Beautiful
is the sound of that crying Pegasus as it slowly dies from the collision with
your car; lying on the ground and coughing up undead, baby Tasmanian devils which
are screaming that they will kill you between vomiting up human blood.
Beautiful is that uprooting, murder sound of the sonar piercing through your
brain; turning it into a sweet, sweet pile of mashed potato mush in a matter of
seconds while having heard, minutes before that, your ex fucking your now
ex-best friend while your ex enjoys it more than they ever did with you. That,
is beautiful.
And this beauty of the beautiful is what has driven you
to this waterfall.
And waterfalls are pretty.
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