Savior
Savior
The savior walked alone on the cold dusty lane. His eyes, bloodshot and red, clothes, plain. In silence, he continued his journey in secret, he long since left his people. He, however, is not forgotten by his people, who everyday pray for his return, cry out in the streets, asking why he has deserted him. He's all alone it seems.
He continues walking. The sand from either side of the street, picked up in the wind, swirls around his feet, but he does not notice. The air tastes like metal, with a hint of radiation. This is normal to him, he doesn't mind. He is passive.
The sun beats down on his weathered back, partially exposed through tattered clothes. Days upon days have passed. No food, no water, but he doesn't complain. He is passive. He is all alone, the nearest city is not for miles in every direction, and, even if he had a companion, walking on the other side of the street, it would be no different. He always was alone, and always will be.
Days are long in the desert, and the temperatures vary alarmingly, but the savior trudges on. Nothing can hurt a man who has already existed within the grips of hell, dodging the tendrils of flames with ease. Hot sand and cold wind do not even compare.
Slowly, he recedes more, and more. So much that you can no longer even sense him, like a walking corpse. And a corpse he was, for what else is a man with no purpose in the world? Just a mass of muscle and bones, consuming, but never returning the favor. Greed with no guilt. Yet he kept walking, on, and on, and on.
Just as the sun rose nigh on the horizon of the hundredth day, in the distance appeared a deep canyon. He barely noticed it. A few feet into the hole, the sand disappeared, and was replaced with metal plating. After that, there was nothing, just, black. Like an eye staring up into space, challenging the heavens themselves.
He came closer and closer. When, finally, he realized, the canyon was not unpopulated. Thousands of other people, exact copies of him, filed towards the canyon. They were different sizes, different heights, different hair. Yet, all the same in soul.
These are the saviors. The souls of the oppressed and the depressed. The ones who don't care to look different, or the same, don't care about fads, the ones who rage revolution with all of their little souls. Alone they are nothing, but together, they feed each other, until an unstoppable being is born. And, were only waiting on you to make the move that puts it all in motion.
He continues walking. The sand from either side of the street, picked up in the wind, swirls around his feet, but he does not notice. The air tastes like metal, with a hint of radiation. This is normal to him, he doesn't mind. He is passive.
The sun beats down on his weathered back, partially exposed through tattered clothes. Days upon days have passed. No food, no water, but he doesn't complain. He is passive. He is all alone, the nearest city is not for miles in every direction, and, even if he had a companion, walking on the other side of the street, it would be no different. He always was alone, and always will be.
Days are long in the desert, and the temperatures vary alarmingly, but the savior trudges on. Nothing can hurt a man who has already existed within the grips of hell, dodging the tendrils of flames with ease. Hot sand and cold wind do not even compare.
Slowly, he recedes more, and more. So much that you can no longer even sense him, like a walking corpse. And a corpse he was, for what else is a man with no purpose in the world? Just a mass of muscle and bones, consuming, but never returning the favor. Greed with no guilt. Yet he kept walking, on, and on, and on.
Just as the sun rose nigh on the horizon of the hundredth day, in the distance appeared a deep canyon. He barely noticed it. A few feet into the hole, the sand disappeared, and was replaced with metal plating. After that, there was nothing, just, black. Like an eye staring up into space, challenging the heavens themselves.
He came closer and closer. When, finally, he realized, the canyon was not unpopulated. Thousands of other people, exact copies of him, filed towards the canyon. They were different sizes, different heights, different hair. Yet, all the same in soul.
These are the saviors. The souls of the oppressed and the depressed. The ones who don't care to look different, or the same, don't care about fads, the ones who rage revolution with all of their little souls. Alone they are nothing, but together, they feed each other, until an unstoppable being is born. And, were only waiting on you to make the move that puts it all in motion.