Bittergal
Witness
Hand in hand, entering the serene time-capsule of our joining.
Silky surfaces that drill relax! relax! relax! into the hind-brain. No wall has a screen flickering, for there are no walls within our tropical aquarium cube.
See how the fish fly over and under us, see how they seek to sustain themselves, to feed, to continue their colorful journey towards decomposition.
A new year, a new decade: 2120. A new vice, substance, ambrosia.
Her eyes thunder with a thousand mysteries. The pounding of our hearts taps out an orderly march promising nothing but divine pleasure.
Ingestion: Halonansids.
We descend as misty clouds onto the plateau of our bed.
Science, oh science! What a majestic mistress of mind expansion, providing evermore a blitzkrieg for our souls. Halonansids, a wonder that transports the partakers ever so briefly to somewhen else. We have avidly watched the occufeeds of other users: A trip through the chaotic beauty of underlying principles, and then clarity, a full immersion in another age.
The electronans kick in. I see in her eyes the same enlightenment that she sees in mine.
Time is no thing. Place is a farcical delusion of lazy senses.
We flow into one single moment of many aeons. We are one, many, none, all and we fall, oh we fall on down the rabbit hole into worlds of wonder and terror and everything betwixt.
Hungover, journey over, the radiation cloud that washes into the body after the majestic mushrooming of the mind.
Eyelids that feel ancient flick open, forced to do so by some urgent instinct.
The fish are not seen. The water is foul, a murky brown mass that voices nothing but corruption.
She is sobbing into a pillow, long woken before me. That is certain.
"What is wrong, oh my angel, what is the matter?"
Slowly she looks up from her silken sorrow sponge.
Her eyes, those orbs of infinite depth, have died... They have died.
What horror? What horror did this to our awaited ascension?
"Outside," she whispers. "Outside."
I dress her. A smudged painting in a gilded frame. I dress myself. A curator of empty halls and walls.
I lead her out of the room, up the stairs. Only with my arm around her does she place one foot afore the other, as listless as a lioness whose cubs the wildfires did consume.
Oh reader, oh you lone soul who has the sorrowful fate of treading this desolate world with me, how can I describe the dread that gripped my being as my hand clutched that door's handle?
Did I stand there rooted, with a silenced lover, for a second or an age?
If I knew what awaited me, would I have opened that dreaded portal or simply... no, I turned the handle and beheld the source of our damnation.
Ruin.
A wasted earth was all that greeted us and so I greeted it: Shouting, cursing, I sank to my knees and beat down with my fists, my face, my blood and tears.
This is what she had faced, alone.
This voidal landscape of dust.
The sky, the earth and all in between: Just dust.
Now, stranger, you who read this epitaph, I know not how your world came to be naught but the atoms of a forgotten utopia. I know not. Do you?
A senseless question in a senseless world.
Stranger, you who have most likely been born here, you who have walked this earth, dug for the rarest of roots and springs, know this: Beauty exists. There are things so majestic to behold that they enslave the soul in rapture.
There are Angels.
Here lies mine.
Silky surfaces that drill relax! relax! relax! into the hind-brain. No wall has a screen flickering, for there are no walls within our tropical aquarium cube.
See how the fish fly over and under us, see how they seek to sustain themselves, to feed, to continue their colorful journey towards decomposition.
A new year, a new decade: 2120. A new vice, substance, ambrosia.
Her eyes thunder with a thousand mysteries. The pounding of our hearts taps out an orderly march promising nothing but divine pleasure.
Ingestion: Halonansids.
We descend as misty clouds onto the plateau of our bed.
Science, oh science! What a majestic mistress of mind expansion, providing evermore a blitzkrieg for our souls. Halonansids, a wonder that transports the partakers ever so briefly to somewhen else. We have avidly watched the occufeeds of other users: A trip through the chaotic beauty of underlying principles, and then clarity, a full immersion in another age.
The electronans kick in. I see in her eyes the same enlightenment that she sees in mine.
Time is no thing. Place is a farcical delusion of lazy senses.
We flow into one single moment of many aeons. We are one, many, none, all and we fall, oh we fall on down the rabbit hole into worlds of wonder and terror and everything betwixt.
Hungover, journey over, the radiation cloud that washes into the body after the majestic mushrooming of the mind.
Eyelids that feel ancient flick open, forced to do so by some urgent instinct.
The fish are not seen. The water is foul, a murky brown mass that voices nothing but corruption.
She is sobbing into a pillow, long woken before me. That is certain.
"What is wrong, oh my angel, what is the matter?"
Slowly she looks up from her silken sorrow sponge.
Her eyes, those orbs of infinite depth, have died... They have died.
What horror? What horror did this to our awaited ascension?
"Outside," she whispers. "Outside."
I dress her. A smudged painting in a gilded frame. I dress myself. A curator of empty halls and walls.
I lead her out of the room, up the stairs. Only with my arm around her does she place one foot afore the other, as listless as a lioness whose cubs the wildfires did consume.
Oh reader, oh you lone soul who has the sorrowful fate of treading this desolate world with me, how can I describe the dread that gripped my being as my hand clutched that door's handle?
Did I stand there rooted, with a silenced lover, for a second or an age?
If I knew what awaited me, would I have opened that dreaded portal or simply... no, I turned the handle and beheld the source of our damnation.
Ruin.
A wasted earth was all that greeted us and so I greeted it: Shouting, cursing, I sank to my knees and beat down with my fists, my face, my blood and tears.
This is what she had faced, alone.
This voidal landscape of dust.
The sky, the earth and all in between: Just dust.
Now, stranger, you who read this epitaph, I know not how your world came to be naught but the atoms of a forgotten utopia. I know not. Do you?
A senseless question in a senseless world.
Stranger, you who have most likely been born here, you who have walked this earth, dug for the rarest of roots and springs, know this: Beauty exists. There are things so majestic to behold that they enslave the soul in rapture.
There are Angels.
Here lies mine.
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