melancholia

Wonderland

iv.

The Rabbit is running. He is always running, he has to beat the clock, you see. Terrible amount of things to do. So much work, the Queen must only have the best.

Yes, yes, he knows that his clock has stopped. Those two hooligans filled it with jam (strawberry jam-how dare they-). Yes, he knows it isn't quarter to three. It's the principle of the thing. Listen, he can't stop to chat, he has to run. He's very late.

The Rabbit is always late, nobody always seems to get there before he does. Nobody can be the fastest person in wonderland, nobody is faster than the Rabbit. Oh, sometimes the Rabbit longs to beat Nobody.

No, no, this won't do. The Rabbit shakes his head and darts away, into his tidy little home, to pick up his pristine (sterile-stark-stark raving mad!) white gloves. He is white. His room is white. He carefully looks in the mirror, carefully inspects his shoes (perfect shine), carefully examines at his vest (buttoned perfectly) and carefully avoids his eyes. He walks (runs, leaps, bounds) out his clean white door. If only he could wear white all the time.

Yes, he wears red for the queen. The Queen is rather picky, you know. No, no, that won't do at all. She is particular. The Rabbit sometimes admits (lies, lies) that he is also rather particular, but the Queen is particular in ways he cannot be. Sometimes he weeps when the soldiers take out the paintbrushes. Sometimes he wipes them off carefully with his white (cold, cold, white) kerchief and carefully hops away. He doesn't really feel guilty. Only a little, only when the card soldiers get beheaded (there is the red again, red-red like blood, red like life). He has never tried to stop the Queen however, even though she is illogical, after all, he doesn't want to be beheaded (no, no, because then he'll see...there will be red coming out of him and he is supposed to be white-blank, blank white. Logical white. There will be no red for him. There will be no life for him.)

The Rabbit blows his trumpet and calls out names and keeps his eyes on the clean white tiles and wishes he were home. Oh dear, oh dear. He shakes their hands, he shows them the way into the castle (Yes, yes up those stairs, near the tapestry with all the hearts, why aren't I coming with you? Well, you see...you see...I'm awfully, terribly sorry, too many things to do.) and then he cleans his gloves. He has to clean his gloves. They have to be spotless.

The Rabbit sighs, the Rabbit goes home, and places the pocket watch in the velvet-lined box in the drawer for his pocket watches. He takes of his great coat, his hat (oh he how he hates that hatmaker-with his rich black tea) and his monocle. He takes off his gloves, he wipes a finger on the mantel (no dust, never dust, there can't be any-) and turns around. And stops. He forgot (how can you forget? White does not forget!). He is looking in the mirror-he is looking into his grey, grey eyes. And there is no reason there. No. No there must be. (There is always reason and logic and sterile stark barren blankness and he can't, he mustn't think in shades of grey. Black and white. White and White. White white white...white is not the color of madness or passion or love or life. Everything in wonderland is Red. Except the Rabbit. The rabbit is grey. He is grey, no matter how much he tries to scrub away his color.)

The Rabbit looks at his reflection, and the Rabbit smiles, because Reason and Rhyme never had a bloody (bloody, bloody, Haha! What fun! exclaims the cat) thing to do with it.