There is no sky. No valley to cross through and seize hope. Because hope is in oblivion, nestled in the arms of goodbye. No water or ground. There’s only floating. I make a ground so I can see, but it is false. False and flat. My legs don’t work because I am nowhere. I have no feeling. I am transcending to prove a point. And a light obscures my body. I can no longer feel. If I exist, it is as a mere thought, a benevolent (or perhaps malevolent) will to keep one surviving speck of someone in continuation. Nothing of me survives, not my heart or hair or lungs or skin. If I have no reflection, I do not live. Because aesthetics are the mark of a human face. But there is no sifting silver glass to reflect my image, so I cannot know for sure. There are no stars. If there is light, it is obscured by the light. There is no darkness because darkness is absence which I am not allowed to feel. And I am alone. I float. I drown. I do not fly. Floating is not the same as soaring. And I am not supported. I long to sink below the suffocation, but I cannot. Hand me a sword that I might smite myself. But that would be too kind. Just taunt me. I care not. How could I with this whistling wind in my ears that I do not feel or see? To mean something to someone, something, would take away from my punishment. Thus, only punishment can touch me. Only the nothing void. So I continue on. There is no pain, but I wish for it. Just give me deliverance. Give me anything. There is no one left to give, nothing left to take. I am alone. And the serpent creeps closer. It glides through the nothing so easily. I envy it, and I know it will make me a deal. I will match any price, anything. This is desperation. But the serpent passes me, glinting evilly in the silver nothingness. I am forsaken. Infinite shadows press on me, and light sears me invisibly. Welcome to the unending.
Page of Swords
November 25, 2009