Status: Complete.
The Denouement
b e g i n
The world was dark but vivid as only awful things can be, where imagery tattoos itself to the mind, but details cannot be recalled; only hushed impending notions exist, rendering every sentient being a shell-shocked victim capable of speaking in stilted sentences only.
The sky, if indeed one would call it that, was a swirling ocean of greyscale terror. It felt at once one million miles away, and directly on top of one's self; both unreachable and suffocating. The landscape, though following the same monochromatic theme, was physically impossible, and thus, indescribable. All objects were at once totally real and fundamentally imaginary, both solid and transparent, shapeless and formed, unyielding and fluid. All reality was held in a sort of static limbo of which all causes were questionable and all effects of a random origin.
Whether brutal imagery exists in this place is not easily discerned, for the horror is not in what can be seen, felt, or heard, but rather the sheer absence of senses at all. Raw fear blares like a horrible cacophonous siren in the heart and in the mind, only to immediately seem foreign and unexplainable. If one were to utter one's name in this world, surely, one would forget any connection to it at all, and it would become a strange sound only. Perhaps even unpleasant.
Yes, whether anything of profound terror exists in this world at all is a great mystery, for the horror of this place is the horror of nonexistence itself, it is a land of dreams that have forgotten their dreamers, an island of ideologies that has abandoned their meanings. Here, all languages have died, and writhe like the undead upon impossible floors, mouths stretched open horribly with muted nonsense gasps and pawing hands which swoop through the impossible air like birds. Or perhaps not. Perhaps nothing is there at all.
To find one's self here, in this horrible, impossible land, is to find one's self at the very end of the universe. Here, meaning has laid it's coarse white head to rest, and dreams only of nonsensical illusions, of things that are not, and cannot be, that exist for a moment and are gone again.
All great art comes here, for its magic has been thought out of it, and great minds come here, too, to be made real again and forgotten about in one single impossible breath. This world may very well be a place of evil, had evil been allowed to exist beyond the confines of mechanical human minds. However, as it stands, no good or evil may bloom here, for nothing at all may bloom in this wretched, impossible soil.
To stand on the shores of the demonic Babylon, to dip one's toes in its alien water and turn to stone, it is the most beautiful death. Is indeed the death of all deaths, for it is everlasting, like a star which burns more brilliantly in its destruction. To forget one's self here is the superb emptying of all things, the returning to a time which predates meaning, where all gods parish and all angels fall.
The sky, if indeed one would call it that, was a swirling ocean of greyscale terror. It felt at once one million miles away, and directly on top of one's self; both unreachable and suffocating. The landscape, though following the same monochromatic theme, was physically impossible, and thus, indescribable. All objects were at once totally real and fundamentally imaginary, both solid and transparent, shapeless and formed, unyielding and fluid. All reality was held in a sort of static limbo of which all causes were questionable and all effects of a random origin.
Whether brutal imagery exists in this place is not easily discerned, for the horror is not in what can be seen, felt, or heard, but rather the sheer absence of senses at all. Raw fear blares like a horrible cacophonous siren in the heart and in the mind, only to immediately seem foreign and unexplainable. If one were to utter one's name in this world, surely, one would forget any connection to it at all, and it would become a strange sound only. Perhaps even unpleasant.
Yes, whether anything of profound terror exists in this world at all is a great mystery, for the horror of this place is the horror of nonexistence itself, it is a land of dreams that have forgotten their dreamers, an island of ideologies that has abandoned their meanings. Here, all languages have died, and writhe like the undead upon impossible floors, mouths stretched open horribly with muted nonsense gasps and pawing hands which swoop through the impossible air like birds. Or perhaps not. Perhaps nothing is there at all.
To find one's self here, in this horrible, impossible land, is to find one's self at the very end of the universe. Here, meaning has laid it's coarse white head to rest, and dreams only of nonsensical illusions, of things that are not, and cannot be, that exist for a moment and are gone again.
All great art comes here, for its magic has been thought out of it, and great minds come here, too, to be made real again and forgotten about in one single impossible breath. This world may very well be a place of evil, had evil been allowed to exist beyond the confines of mechanical human minds. However, as it stands, no good or evil may bloom here, for nothing at all may bloom in this wretched, impossible soil.
To stand on the shores of the demonic Babylon, to dip one's toes in its alien water and turn to stone, it is the most beautiful death. Is indeed the death of all deaths, for it is everlasting, like a star which burns more brilliantly in its destruction. To forget one's self here is the superb emptying of all things, the returning to a time which predates meaning, where all gods parish and all angels fall.