quiet truths whispered
any louder and the worlds would shift
consumed in the blaze
charred remains
just drifting through space
by a single phrase uttered
et oblivio accebit
they would end the worlds together
staring directly into their deaths
holding hands, letting it wash over them
a million different lives, in a million different realms
just so one could end
in perfection
“My heart weighs heavily in the confines beneath my chest, blood still locked behind the ribcage- just slow and dull. Is this what dying feels like? Or just another case of self applied heartbreak?”
He was trying to find contentment, his hand holding the pen- bringing forth his plight.
“Laughter rings through my ears, the crackling of demons as they feast on my flesh. The pain hidden from view, being slowly surrounded.”
It was all he could feel when he touched another soul, reaching straight for the blackness so he could clear it with light. All conscious beings deserve perfection, what he thought should be a birthright. He was willing to suffer so that the others could have it, lost somewhere.
“Why are we given the knowledge of the gods, without the power to do anything about it? I’m in this self imposed conundrum, longing to interact- to seek comfort in another’s form.”
He had to have it on his terms of engagement, its why he was up in these wee hours of the morning- scribbling furiously away. He cared too much for the pen, what it could show him about himself- and not enough how it could help the others out there. His insecurities were projected through the ink, and he was learning to face his own fears and demons.
“I can control my emotions. Dictate that the energy flow elsewhere, leaving them withered and dying. I choose, however to wallow in my sufferings.”
He dropped the pen almost unconsciously, bringing his hand to massage his neck- a headache seeping in. It struck as lightning bolts, setting fire to his mind. He had to take it slow, each spark- every neuron, causing him a little death. He was trying to hold onto a spectacular vision.
“As if they do me any good.”
Sleep wanted to rear its ugly head, so he could rest. Social discourse forbade it.
“Every word releases the torture in my soul.”
One hand grabbed a pouch of tobacco sitting across the desk, the other furiously scratched the last sentence from existence. An ugly black mark stared him in the eyes as he rolled a cigarette with the ease of practice.
“No blanket of silence will bring my soul fully to rest. Torturous whisperings of broken worlds. I cannot flee, cannot escape.”
He was re-patterning everything he had known, shaking his world to watch the pieces fall like a cheap snow-globe. A toy for him to watch as the seconds ticked past and the smoke drifted into his lungs.
“It is an important fact to remember, to be able to put it all in perspective- the folly acts we commit to. Alas, ultimately- it matters not. Transitory existence…”
“Thus are our lives.” Finishing the words aloud.
The sun, that fiery ball high overhead was bringing forth life- and he was drenched in sweat. He could feel the nuclear reactions from here, as his feet made their way across the desert. Sweat marked his form, the heat welling up beneath his skin. A breeze wanted to caress his face, to wisp away the beads on his brow. Nearing collapse, he willed each leg out implanting the bare feet on the hot coals of sand. It wedged between his toes, beckoning him to fall- offering an embrace soft, yet miserable. As if who he was would stay when he fell victim to gravity, no he had gone to far- he wouldn’t allow it.
There was nothing within sight but a barren wasteland, yet he couldn’t turn back. He wouldn’t allow himself. The sun had risen many times, and he had no clue how long was spent walking. At one point he lapsed out of consciousness, unaware of the blackness stalking him. It swallowed him whole in the blink of an eye, far faster than he could open his lips to protest.
Eyes fluttered open, and it took him a long moment to get them to focus. The world was fuzzy at the edges, details becoming lost- vague shapes assaulting the senses. Before the world could even snap into place, tiredness weighed heavily on his form. The world wavered in and out as his head spun in circles. He was having trouble breathing, heaviness filling his chest. A cough, that turned into a sputter- and he tilted his head to the side just before the vomit spewed forth. Was he on his bed, or in the bathroom? He couldn’t feel any sort of floor, floating somewhere in the absence of light. Eyes were squinted, trying to block out the harsh brightness which was making his world take hold. A shadow formed before him, a grin full of sharp teeth making sure it was seen.
“Silly boy,” a whispered growl at the base of his neck.
my depressions a recession from the outside world
an internal obsession- past fetal and curled
the external lessons leave me battered and repelled
expression alone has made me madder than hell
they say time will tell, that illusions now dispelled
this turning of a world, I can’t even watch it twirl
but you can say I fell, that mentally I’ve been jailed
its close enough to truth, if the words are needing held
As a child, I was heavily ingrained with religious knowledge. I honestly don’t know when the floor fell from under my faith, but I do know that I tumbled down a dark spiral which shattered the core of my being. Years were spent in its reconstruction, only to destroy that core once more. Every fall into a pit of blackness only brought forth a brighter light. If only in the depth of that night I were able to see the stars.
I chased away various hopes and dreams, an Achilles complex always wanting something greater. Life ticked past, emotions cycling on the clock face. A time of great highs and lows, forcing the bounds of endurance greater and greater. It was all in vain of course, little attempts to extract every gleam of beauty.
I remember the last time I was truly angry. Destruction of worlds would lay in its wake, a black hole looming. Its gravity pulled me closer and closer. An ancient construct, this hate was wise- it just reveled in chaos. A glimpse could suck you in for eternity, and thats exactly what it did.
A spiraling vortex of blood, you start to fall- it fills your lungs.
“Wake up,” just scream at yourself- it might work. Try and find a life. Carve it into your arm, tattoo it onto flesh. Bleed for hopes and dreams, and no matter what happens you’ll have those reminders- that guidance.
What am I waiting for?
No longer am I filled with the dread that plagued past lives, no longer does the heavy burden of reality feel as if it is about to collapse around me. The threat of destruction has loomed for longer than eternity, yet it comes with a sense of contentment- if the void comes, then it shall.
Yet, I still wait patiently. Wanting greatness to occur, grandiose aspirations linger waiting to spark.
What is it that I wait for?
Is it love? Oh how I desire to be able to feel that manifestation of incomparable joy resting snuggled in my chest. That warmth with every beat, every pulsation sending cleansing fire throughout the core of my being.
I once feared that my lifeforce would spill across the ground before I found it, thickening and cooling against a cool midnight breeze as I died alone and by my own hands. A terror which convinced me that I had no choice but to escape as I had in lifetimes past. A glint of steel across skin, and a fading into the depths of blackness- delving into the maw of the void.
It still calls for me, in times such as now. A sweet sirens song, beautifully attuning empty promises of rest, of peace. A blanket to cover the senses, to keep me warm in lieu of her on those cold nights haunted by the myriad of thought.
It had become a constant struggle to hold onto one sense of reality, that mutual sharing of a worldview. Everything would bleed at the edges, merging into something else. He had moved past the place littered with the broken bones picked clean from the old travelers who hadn’t quite made it this far. There wasn’t a path any longer, just foreign plants overgrown which he had to wade through. That feeling of needing one more step to look over the horizon and see a valley below. It was as close to the edge as he could get, and each step pushed it further out.
At this point, it didn’t matter if the path had been traveled before- time had erased its tracks. He didn’t delude himself in any manner, just put forth all his power into struggling to lift his legs. The world was getting heavier, almost collapsing. Each instance, the world loomed further on both directions.
Was he lost yet? He tried to ponder what was occurring. Lush vegetation surrounded him on all sides, while he turned his head. He wasn’t sure if he could turn around, his tracks disappearing as he found himself alone in a different world.
One brief moment was all it took for everything to fall, to be rebuilt. Only in the middle of nothing was he able to finally catch a glimpse of it, way outside of all the distractions assaulting him.
Travel always made him woozy, and he had to take a moment to catch his breath. Everything oozed with a brightness around him, a near toxic level of green. It was a feeling of death and rebirth at a sickening level, pulsating brighter and brighter. If he had eaten, he would have lost his meal. The rumblings stilled as his body tried to reach homeostasis. Everything was spinning, and as he eased to sitting, one hand reached- trying to stabilize himself on the hard ground.
Deep lungfuls as everything wavered in and out, shimmering with each breath. Stars twinkling across the dimensions. Something surged up his spine, the cobra spinning and chasing light to the top of his skull. Another joined it, and another. They wove tighter and tighter, as the light grew brighter and brighter. His eyes would only open to blackness, and the vision. The snakes were trying to make their own world, their little piece of peace. They just couldn’t do it themselves.
Archetypical beings, portions of subconscious wanting liberation into conscious thought. A way to break past the walls and locks into force themselves into the forefront of mind. Always assaulting, it was as if the world became a battle ground for these projections.
The base premise is that the idea of separation is that of illusion, perceived stimuli cannot be differentiated by it’s interpretation. We are not able to remain objective in any sense, although we may attempt to delude ourselves into thinking in such a manner.
If everything is actually experiencing itself as a way to constantly grow and push its bounds- is there a way to dictate the external patterning on acute levels which are not readily accessible?
Consciousness and its expression are typically that of a given physical model, but there are monkeys throwing wrenches in the machinery. Projection, assertion of given patterns in a “different” individual is possible with particular knowledge. It comes perhaps best described as a “feeling,” just a particular knowing without the attachment to the typical physical sense organs. Worked many ways, its not a strict violation of what has been termed “free will-” rather a guidance appealing more to the body, working most efficiently by example. Copy given patterns, alter patterns while working on subconscious levels to persuade others to do the same.
Whats next was seen in the state of dreams. Splitting of the consciousness totally into perceivable separate physical beings, and the ability to shift between them at will. At once the puppet masters and the puppet- but knowing that they exist together as one. Humanity at its roots should be bonded in a psychic link that should activate via DNA.
How many walls need to be built?
I believe in nothing I ever think or say, especially when in comes to believing in a sense of “I.”
Whats the next step in evolution?
Creation- for the message, and for its aesthetics. This beauty comes in many forms.
The Cyprus Experiment which broke down, class warfare shifted to the cunning battles between the elite.
We are at a point in time where the pen, this ink- has been the controller of destiny. Meta-programmed to be a quantum star-gate activator. We’re not changing anything, just rearranging the molecules in an appeasing manner. Something appeasing enough to perhaps emulate? To allow it to act as a subconscious guide used to dictate actions?
Reality creation occurs all around us, yet we have forgotten its power. The symbols we use and throw away as trite little trinkets, are the very thing they describe from a cultural standpoint.
This is the point where the most proficient creators would conduct a plot arc, a loop of ideas feeding off one another in a recursive loop. The beginnings which tie in with the endings, slowly traveling through time constructing that one major conflict to tie in all things. Everything else was just prepping, getting ready for the unveiling of the curtain. The red velvet parts, the sea of an old prophet and magician- and we open to a blank stage. It’s longing for the characters to come out and to make their piece, to say a few words then to sulk back into the shadow.
Waiting, training in the absence- to construct an instant who’s beauty is overwhelming.
Transplant banks
The street was deserted minus the heavy machinery whirling in the distance. There were no chirping of birds, no dogs barking as he was used to back in the villages. No, the silence was near complete here- an eerie lack of life around the dilapidated houses. They moved towards the rising smoke, darting in between the shadows. They were on the outskirts, the per-revolution houses awaiting demolishment. The highways were still a few miles away, and the group made their way carefully- splitting up along the way. Each one had their own mission, and they made a beeline straight for it.
‘Closer, yes closer.’
‘You’ll never want to leave you know- not when you see the beauty of the highways.’
The voices started getting angrier the more that he ignored them. ’ Your blood will just be fuel for the machine, and at that point- you’ll be thankful.’
As the distance closed between him and the buildings towering above- the stronger the voices became. It was harder and harder to keep them out, to not fall prey to their sinister suggestions. He had to pause for a moment, to get out from under the relentless sun. He leaned against the walls of an eroding house, carefully pulling out a rolled joint from a side pocket. A prayer, and a hit- the world starting to become fuzzy at the edges. The voices faltered, lingering and hiding into the abyss of a hazy mind. By the time he snuffed out the embers underneath the leather shoes- they had calmed to a dull roar. Two hours left his watch told him. The strike had to be as unified as possible in order to be effective. Squinting against the sky, looming towers told him he only had a few blocks to go and time to kill.
Walking up the desolate street, he tried to find a place to rest. A few shady trees called out to him, and he let his pack fall onto the dying grass. He fell with it, staring at the green leaves overhead. Filtered sunlight across his face, he felt himself start to drift- swaying in the wind with the leaves.
The target was, what they call- a “transplant bank” an important cultural icon. Back in the early days they were where you got the neurochemical enhancements-“upgrading.” These little synthetic biological implants which released nanobots and changed the mood. It started off for the elderly and the dying- a way to relieve their pain, and help ‘em through the transition. But that was only ever the first stage, they starting understanding the process of changing perspectives of whole realities. That was the game changer- they were able to take away the conscious part of being human, of being aware. Fractured the mind into the slave and the one who dreams. And those with the implants are never truly alive, only catching glimpses when they get close to death.
See the physical brain reached whats called a “burnout” point. The synapses couldn’t any longer handle the chemical barrage. They would shut down, whole neural pathways closing. At that point, it was time for another upgrade. They had to physically change the firing mechanism with an injection- a new issue of nanobots, always some new addiction to keep them coming back.
He stepped through the door, and lingered behind a flock of patiently and silently waiting people. The next ten minutes barely crept by.
Glancing nervously at his watch, he fingered the button on the side. Screams ran through his head, making him want to turn and flee. ‘Nothing good will come of this. We both know that much.’
“We’ll see…” The words were spoken aloud, and several people turned to face him with dull stares in the broken silence. A hard look at each one of them in turn, blank eyes turning from his gaze. He pushed the button, and all was quiet. Even his watch’s ticking had stopped. The crowd amassed ahead of him collapsed, bodies falling to the floor in entangling limbs. Twitching on the way down, they no longer had neural access.
Almost instantly the calm was broken with a siren, and the screeching of metal as heavy doors began to fall over the exits. He rushed out, making it just before the crashing weight locked him in. It sealed the shaking bodies within its walls while he struggled against the herd of people moving past. Ducking into the narrow alley access between buildings- he was able to give himself room to breath before he spewed his guts onto the concrete.
‘You killed them. Slaughtered those innocents. They can’t be repaired now, you fried them.’ Thick bile turned into dry heaving, and he couldn’t rid himself of those brief images. The moment the button was pushed, all these personal worlds of strife and pain- those places the people were trying to escape.
‘We only ever wanted to help them. Give them a world free from their sufferings.’
“Fucking lies…” Mumbled words between the heaves and shaking.
‘You’ll see soon enough,’ they taunted back. That ever persistent sickening laughter.
He couldn’t stay where he was. Cleaning crews would be dispatched soon, and if he wasn’t far enough away- when an inspector got there, he would be tracked. He burst into the crowd, and a moment later was lost among them.
Breakfast with the elder
He only had pieces of what he saw the night before, the rest being washed with his naked eyes. A small piece of wood added to the embers, long breaths to get it going. The voices were starting off slow this morning, dulled from the night before. They wanted him to slaughter the sleeping men around him, hints and tips on how easy it would be. He sat up and shook his head violently, wild tangled hair flailing. He could feel that he was being watched, and eyes scanned the dancing shadows from the low light of his fire. The elder was the only other one awake, pouring two cups from a steaming pot. The grey hair hung down over his face, as he took a sip- and motioned for the youngest to come over. The handing of a cup, a sigh as the elder lit up a cigarette. The smoke of a long exhale drifted up and away before he spoke.
“No amount of preparation would have readied you for today. The cities are all that we have taught- and more, and their is nothing like being within their walls. In the middle of their grasps.”
‘Kill him’ the voices whispered, ‘The wall is one of love- he cannot understand, he tries to destroy all which we have created.’
“We have tried our best, yet there’s nothing compared to the gnawing at your mind.”
‘Lies- we have always been here with you. He’s lying, wants to use you to destroy us. You cannot let him.’
“Remember to never get trapped, the community is waiting for us.” The elder grabbed his shoulder, and gave it a firm squeeze. “You’re starting to see the importance of our work- as slow as it may be.” Another sigh, those tired grey eyes which bore into his.
His words were forced coming out, combating against the whispers and gurgling screams. A struggle to get them to fit, “Can we even make a difference?”
‘Yes, yes YES. Doubt, you cannot succeed- will never win. Your histories are lies, and…”
A clearing of the elders throat threw the demon out, although he was slow to respond. Unsure. He held up his drink and took a long look inside- closing his eyes before he spoke. “The cup can sit half empty or half full, either quenching the thirst or making it worse.” A sip of hot liquid running down the throat. “What we do creates a sense of hope for the various villages- no matter if we can help “them” or not.” He nodded upwards, toward the waiting streets. Spoken disdainfully, the elder said it with a heavy heart- but the youngster heard the tone. Spoken as if it were a dirty word.
‘He only cares about himself, and those he has deluded- not about saving us. We don’t want saved.’
“You’ll see for yourself when we reach the surface. Right now it lay muted beneath the concrete.”
“This is muted?” He let out a sarcastic laugh.
The elder concentrated on his smoke, trying to choose his next words carefully. “The mushrooms spoke to me last night-“
‘Ancient deceivers.’
‘They tell nothing but lies.’
‘Only leading you to death, they revel in pain.’
“Showed me what was to come today.” A pause, an inhale thick with heat. “I won’t be coming back- today I have the honor of finally meeting my death in person.” The words were devoid of emotion, stated as a fact. “The men are going to be split up and hunted down. Few are going to make it back- if any. My only fear is that it is a suicide mission for near all. Already there has been too many lives lost.” His voice lowered, and trailed off. Grey eyes glassy, the youngster knew he was watching something else. “They told me more- that all is not yet lost. There is a silver lining in the coming blood. A loosing battle for winning the war. Have that in your mind today, underneath everything else that happens. Focus on what it alludes to when you start to become lost.”
‘The only way to win, is to join.’ Crackling laughter.
‘Already lost, wandering in circles.’
Others began to awaken around them, slowly stretching and rebuilding fires. A motion to lean in close- “The others cannot know- if the teachers had wanted them to, they would have seen the way I saw. You were shown more than you could have possibly absorbed last night- and that knowledge is still brewing within. It will only come out when you are ready, and when you need it-“
‘Never, your mind is weak. There is no hope.’
“Until that point, have patience. Finish your coffee, and go prepare yourself. The night is a long way away, and rest will not come until she does.”
He knew he was dismissed, but he stayed sitting there for a long moment. Question after question ran through his mind; wanting, needing- begging to be answered. Instead of asking, he only nodded his head and crossed the small stream where his sack lay waiting. Something inside, way past the voices, told him that it was going to be a long day indeed- all while the crackling laughter kept him at the brink.
