September
Thursday 10 May 2012 photo 1/2
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Who made the choice? What scales were balanced by a man's death or his life? The questions hooked into him and pulled the man back and forth, burrowing deep. It was such foolishness to ask these pointless things of an uncaring universe. What scales? There were no scales, no great arbiter of fates! It was pagan idolatry to consider such notions, to insist that the lives of men ran in some kind of clockwork beneath the winding fingers of a deity. No: here was truth, universal truth.
The stars turned and man died without a creator's plan for them. There were no gods, no herefores and hereafters, no futures but those they made for themselves.
He and his kinsmen simply were.
And yet...
In this place of death sleep, where things were at once murky and clearer, there seemed instances where the man felt a pressure upon him that came from a place far distant, beyond himself. At the corners of his sensorium, he might perceive a small fragment of brilliance thrown across countless light-years, the merest suggestion of interest from an intellect that towered over his. Cold logic told him that this was wishful, desperate thinking dredged up from the crude animal core of his hindbrain. But he could not quite let go of the feeling, of the raw hope that the will of something greater than he was acting upon him. If he was not dead, then perhaps he had been spared. It was a giddy, perilous thought.
The thoughts disturbed the man. They made him turn and shift in the thick sea, his comfort fading. He sensed the pressure of dark storms brewing out in the impossible spaces around him, the visions of them coming to his mind through someone else's eyes; through a soul not far from his, yes, bright like a distant watcher, but only a single candle against the greater light's burning sun: black clouds of churning emotion, seething and pushing at the warp and weft of space, looking for a weak point through which they could flow. The storm front was coming, inexorable, unstoppable. The man wanted to turn away but there was no place in the drifting fall where he did not find them. He wanted to rise up and fight them, but he had no hands, no face, no flesh.
There were shapes in the gloomy shifting coils that rose and fell, some resembling the spirals of symbols he had seen, others he had glimpsed on during earlier passings of his life, and repeating, over and over, a three-fold icon that seemed to be seeking him out wherever his attention moved: a triad of skulls, a pyramid of screaming faces, three black discs, a trio of bleeding bullet wounds, and other variations, but always the same arrangement of shapes.
And suddenly, the man felt unknown hands upon his cheek, the salt tang of fallen tears on unknown lips. The sensations came to him from far, far away, drawing him to them and out of the haze of the threathening storms.
He was rising now, faster and faster, the warmth turning chill upon him, the pain coiling around his legs and stomach. There was... there was a woman, a head of short hair framed in a penitent's hood and...
And agony, and awakening.
Annons
Geo tag
Camera info
Camera iPhone 4S
Focal length 4 mm
Aperture f/2.4
Shutter 1/15 s
ISO 800
Comment the photo
Björnbjörn
Thu 10 May 2012 21:47
Det här påminner väldigt mycket om en tripprapport jag läste på flashback för ett tag sen. Då var det en snubbe som sneade på svamp och helt plötsligt befann sig i ett mörkt och kallt universum. Under tiden han flöt omkring i den geggan så kom han underfun med att det inte finns någon mening i något, och att det inte är värt att leva för ett syfte... Eller nåt åt det hållet.
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