The Hollow:


The whistle floated through the tree branches, it wasn’t a whistle from the pouting lips of a cheerful creature. This was the whistle of dead creature, the accidental howls of an old tree. The tree stood in a clearing, its branches long since reduced to splintered points. Nothing remained inside. The wind blew over the holes that dotted its sides, whistling the chorus of decay and decomposition.

When the sun rises, and the shadows spring up in contrast from the piercing light of day, there is a greater blackness. It is a shadow, a darkness that lives in hollow trees like this. Sometimes these shadows have names, usually given to them by creatures with mouths and brains. These shadows have their own lives, and at the end of the day they return to the nighttime sameness that surrounds the rest of the trees. The same nighttime darkness that all creatures disappear into.

If you are quick and have sharp eyes that can see such contrasts, and if by some luck your head is facing one of these shadows when the day breaks, you can see them rising out of the hollow trees. They may fly past your vision when you blink, they may creep in the shadow of daylight, moving slowly as to not draw attention. They may even sneak past your eyes and slip comfortably into your blind spots. All living creatures have blind spots, places they can’t see, limitations long since ignored.

Lucy was a small girl when she found the old sun-bleached snag in the clearing. She saw a shadow slip out of its empty body when the dawn broke. A curved black smoke plume, resembling a cloud of ink. She saw it in vivid sharpness that no other darkness can compare. The light of the morning sun filling her eyes, and at the moment the shadow floated up from that hollow tree. The shadow fell into her eyes, a child’s blind spot. It lived there ever since, seeing sunrises and sunsets from inside the eyes of little Lucy.

Lucy lived her life like any human being, she died precisely the same way. She wasn’t important to anyone, nor did she change the world. She didn’t unveil any sinister plot of evil, add to the social order or degrade the social fabric. She was an arrow shot in the dark, who’s life went generally unnoticed by anyone, the kind of ambivalence of cosmic fortune that no Greek tragedy would ever be written.  Even after her death, her remaining family could barely remember her face, nor recall any impactful memories.

She died peacefully in her sleep, there were no mourners, no dramatic family conflict, nothing of the sort. She washed out to the great ocean of time as one of countless waves. However, the shadow watched her life in its entirety with as much joy as shadows can have. It snuck out of her eyes when she slept, mischievously caused all sorts of confusion and chaos whenever it could. The eddies of consequence remained unknown to Lucy even as she breathed out her last breath. This type of contrast is perhaps the richest life a shadow can live.

The torrent of Lucy’s demise was something of a mousetrap, a Rube Goldberg contraption. A series of events starting from dozens of years prior. Like most guillotines of fate, they are nearly impossible to conceive, except in retrospect. The first crank turn was forgotten car-keys, causing a delay. The change in clockwork timing then resulted in a missed encounter, a missed opportunity, then an avalanche of crumbling inevitability. Not that dying could have been prevented, its that in hindsight all the consequences are lined up and counted in categorical order, right up until the guillotine falls.

Lucy’s little heart was on its last few beats, her mind drifting off peacefully on an uncaring tide. The shadow grabbed the reins, pushing small brain buttons, driving Lucy to sleep walk. She floated on her sleepy tide, a deep weightless apathy. The shadow guided her legs to the forest.

The forest near her end-of-life complex was not large, a few trees and some well-tended bushes. It had an old snag that was scheduled for removal. Sleepwalking Lucy crawled up into the hollow of the tree, mindlessly curled up in a small alcove, her old and wrinkled skin was turning bloodless from the cold evening air.

The night wind blew once that evening, it blew over the holes of Lucy’s hollow tree and sung the chorus of decay. The shadow returned to the greater blackness and Lucy faded peacefully into an indistinct oblivion.     

My Broadcast:

“You know what I see, you have my eyes, I have the wires plugged in straight into all the devices. The wires are unnecessary, wireless technology has made them useless. Much like the rest of my implants, they are all useless, they are old fashioned. “

“Today’s devices have instant access to visual, cerebral and historical records, but mine do not. You can tune into my eyes, or my ears but I don’t have any of the newfangled implants, I am old by most people’s standards. My implants are outdated, unsupported, in desperate need for new updates and patches. My implants are unlike the implants today, which are automatically repaired and updated, this difference is hardly noticed, let alone understood.  Let me show you since I don’t have cerebral connections. “

The old man looks around at his body, focusing and examining each one of his implants. He stands up and looks in the mirror at his ears and eyes, his hair and face, a very complete inspection. Some of the implants are plastic, some are corroded and some look like they require surgery. The hearing aid is visible, its plastic form displaying a brand logo. The eyes look noticeably different, yellow and black. 

The oldest implant is a small nub at the back of the neck, the man strains to show it in the mirror, wrenching his neck around to side-eye the implant hole. The quarter-inch metallic entrance is slightly corroded, it no longer shines or gleams. It is too late for removal and unlikely to be replaceable due to age. 

“You see viewers, I am an old cyborg. I am propped up by these implants. I have one of the first heart and circulator system implants. My brain has the second-generation ceramic housing and redundant storage. I got both system implants around 65 years ago.”

The man reminisces a pristine story with absolute clarity due to his implants, describing at length the developments in technology and his place in the timeline. The whirling backup systems inside his brain made it impossible for him to forget. 

His viewer base loves this kind of stuff. He is a storyteller and they were there to listen. He talked to a specific generation, a specific group of people with fascinations for old cyborgs, and old celebrities. They had been waiting for his exciting conclusion. He had spent the greater part of a year building up the anticipation for a personal reveal, something vulnerable. He had never talked about his implants or even the history of how he got them. 

“I am tired, I am heavy in my bones. I am heavy with my memories, I wish I could forget anything, yet each piece of information is accessible, instantly. Every one of my memories, is crystal clear yet have slowly dissolved into a gray soup. I remember each of the best times of my life, exactly as it happened, without a single change over the 65 years of the implants. I am 178 as of today.”

“I remember the bad memories too, they ooze away into the gray soup too, each one remembered ad nauseum, right next to all the glory my brain has stored up in it. Each memory is a rerun, a 65-year-old entertainment series, repeating in the gray matter of syndication.”

“I have had it, I am done. I have reached an inevitable conclusion for years now, something that has taken me nearly two centuries to percolate into words. If I had a cerebral implant you could know what I mean. Then again, if I had one of those implants, these thoughts would have been overwritten years ago.”

The old man winces as he stands up slowly and shuffles into a brightly lit kitchen. 

“My body aches, my head throbs, my joints creak. More importantly, I am haunted by a conclusion that will not let me rest nor does my augmented brain let me forget. The conclusion is that living is altogether not a good thing, life is not sacred. It isn’t pleasurable, meaningful or worthwhile. The idea of living longer has lost its appeal, the idea of choosing life is now far more ambiguous. I don’t choose life anymore. Life is cheap and painful, implants are expensive.”

The old man knew that he had roughly 15 minutes before programmed enforcers would try and stop him. The dialog would trigger a response in the up-feed filters and fail-safes in the viewer’s brains (even without implants). He began acting quickly.

“For my finale, as a gift to all you long time viewers and voyeurs I have something to show you. Something that isn’t available for purchase anymore, something purely ancient and wonderful.  I present you something known as a Thermite Grenade. Before I say goodbye, please take the time to up-doot/loke/shair/subscrybe to my broadcast.” 

The old man retrieved a small grenade from a drawer, looked it over intently. Then pulled the pin. The thermite grenade destroyed all of the old man’s implants, all of his flesh, organs and memories contained within his ceramic brain casing that was installed 65 years ago. Such a display was indeed rare, there were no more thermite grenades anymore, and the ability to destroy your implants was certainly a beautiful finale for an old cyborg.

The Greater Mimic:

Artemis Aether #Reflection Hour 14:37:

Yesterday was one of the best days of my life. I was walking down by the beach, reflecting in the peace of the waves and shore. I had walked past the No-Trespassing sign. I almost missed the black garbage bag leaned up behind a driftwood log. The top was knotted and zip-tied shut. The bag was nearly three feet tall and packed full of what looked like money stacks. It was bulging, with little wedges jutting slightly out of the bag at odd angles, as if it had been neatly stacked within the black cocoon and then jostled for an unknown duration by the ocean waves…….

The bag leaned against the driftwood log haphazardly, the kind of precarious balance that an uncaring tide throws out. It could have been trash, it could have been someone’s yard waste, but it wasn’t. I tore a little hole in the top with a sharp shell and tore a hole large enough for my hand and pinched out some greenbacks, all 100s. 

With a frantic lumbering, I shuttled that black bag back to my car. The cold winter weather provided good cover for my suspicious behavior. I don’t know if any hidden eyes saw me, if anyone did see anything, they saw only a full black trash bag. I drove straight home and tore open my Neptunian plunder. 

I counted $745,000, three times. I organized it, I put it into beautiful towering stacks of $100,000. This was probably the best afternoon in my life, I remember falling asleep thinking of all things I was going to buy. 

Artemis Aether #Reflection Hour 20:42:

Today was a little strange, I found myself cancelling social engagements. I didn’t want anyone over while my towering stacks of 100s demanded my attention. I needed to figure out what to do, and I don’t want anyone to know something is up. I cancelled everything out 3 weeks from now. That should give me enough time to figure out what to do.

Of my plans, I think I have narrowed it down to two options. I should deposit the whole amount into the bank for safekeeping and easier spending, or I should spend it on precious jewels for later liquidation. I think it will be a lot easier to move ¾ of a million dollars in jewels, (diamonds maybe). I am not sure; however, I am going to start looking for some top-end jewelers and see what options there are.

I am nervous about the bank option; such a deposit is traceable. If it is blood money or drug money, the last thing I need is cops and robbers.  I don’t feel bad about the money, we all contribute in our own way to the world’s great wrongs, either by our wasteful existence or by some indirect support of a machine that crushes people up. 

I will certainly donate a portion to a charity to cleanse any blood that washed up with the money. I think $100,000 should be enough. I put one of the 100k stacks on my dinner table, the lighting makes it look like green skyscraper towering over my kitchen table town. 

Artemis Aether #Reflection Hour 04:14:

I found an odd place today that sells jewels, among other things. I had visited 14 different jewelers last week and none of them had anything that interested me. All of them were diamond merchants: wedding ring snake oil shysters.  Diamonds are so common, the resale value on them is so low. I wanted something rare, something that would sell when I needed it to. 

This jeweler sold all kinds of items, an endless variety of potions, herbs, charms and hexes. Jewels were only one of the things on their handmade sign, but the little painted ruby on the wooden display drew me in. It had a little counter-clockwise spiral in it. At first, I thought it was some occult symbol, I was wrong.

When I inquired about the painted ruby the lady at the counter paused a moment and then produced a black velvet box, with an intricate small spiral laid in silver on its lid. The container was a work of art, the corners detailed exquisitely and the velvet hypnotically dark. No shadow or light seemed to escape its matted richness. 

When she opened the box, a soft red light bathed the shop, it flooded out slowly. I remember looking for a light behind the jewels, but once she offered for me to touch them and hold them I could see clearly the light source was within the rubies themselves. Two of them, a pair of red, and within the center of each was a small spiral, one clockwise and the other counter-clockwise.

I can only describe vaguely the effect, I must had looked into them for 20 minutes. The spirals were mesmerizing, the carats and cut were breathtakingly perfect, my eyes could find no imperfections, not a single flaw. They seemed to contain the spirals like a creature caught in amber, the twisting shape stuck in a motionless dance. I followed the spirals of each over and over again. The lady behind the counter finally had to touch my arm and shake me a little. 

I asked how much each one was, she replied that they were $350,000 each. I told her I would have to think about it, and left quickly, stunned by the experience. In retrospect I should have tried to negotiate a little before leaving. I think she could see that I was in serious consideration. 

I have thought of nothing else since then. Now when I see the green stacks of money in my house I feel that red light glowing from within those green bills, like an ethereal Christmas of money and rubies. I haven’t been able to sleep yet, but I have put all the stacks of money into another garbage bag. I think that those rubies would be a good investment, if I am willing to buy them I am sure someone else will. 

Artemis Aether #Reflection Hour 22:37:

I bought the rubies. The lady behind the counter didn’t even flinch when I came into her shop with a garbage bag full of money. She didn’t even count the money, at least not that I saw. She pulled out the black velvet box and with a grunt, carried the garbage bag to the back room. I heard her walk down some stairs and issue some inaudible orders to someone and then she came back. 

When she returned, she opened the box up and the red light bathed the shop briefly before she shut the lid. A hand shake and I was out the door. I had no regrets. I thought about giving to a charity briefly, but I couldn’t imagine separating the two rubies. I will give to charity when I resell the stones. 

When I got home my house looked empty, the stacks of bills which had been my anxious roommate for two weeks were now gone. They had been distilled into these two rubies with opposing spirals. What a sweet distillation it had been. I must have looked into those rubies for hours; their spirals are beautiful beyond compare.

I had to tell some of my friends today that I have been busy, I still feel compelled to avoid people in general. The idea of someone discovering these rubies fills me with dread. There is something about the red light that is personal, it is deeper than I had first experienced. I am not at all tired and even in writing this, my mind is filled with the image of those ruddy eyes and twisting shapes within. 

Artemis Aether #Reflection Hour 23:17:

It has been a weird week. I have spent most of my waking time with these rubies, I found myself sitting on my bed staring into them for hours. My landlord had to shake me awake yesterday. Apparently, they had been banging on the door for 15 minutes. I forgot to pay my rent and had to offer them cash. I have the remaining $45k, but I don’t know how long that will last. I quit my job, I couldn’t imagine not seeing those rubies for 8 hours, I had a nightmare that terrified me beyond anything I have ever known. 

I had fallen asleep looking at the red stones, I remember holding them in my dreams, the red glow was warm, like a bath that never gets cold. Then they got smaller, they shrunk in my hands. I saw them slowly get so small that I couldn’t see them, the warm glow fading with the rubies. Around me was only an endless black, a cold nothing without edges. I remember trying to shout or scream, trying to wake from the dream but nothing happened. I was stuck in that dark place unable to make noise or rouse myself. 

I remember the passage of hours within my nightmare, a disembodied sense of time. I had no way of knowing precisely, since the world around me was blank and empty of any landmarks or even a horizon. I remember wondering if I was cursed, trapped in this place forever. I began thinking of the rubies again, their beautiful shape and tantalizing spirals within. It was at this moment I felt something brush by my legs, it was soft, like a thick velvet blanket. I looked down and saw only the formless dark. Then I felt the thick velvet on my neck, it was wrapping around me like a scarf.  I was petrified, paralyzed with fear, there was nowhere to run, nothing to see. I grabbed at my neck, nothing was there. 

Before I woke up I vaguely remember looking down at my feet, watching them slowly fading into the bleak nothingness around me. Needless to say, the idea of not being able to see the rubies is becoming a serious impediment for me.

Artemis Aether #Reflection Hour 11:37:

This is my last entry, perhaps it’s better this way. I have since moved out and away from my friends and family, the idea of them seeing the rubies fills me with a terror that I can only describe as overwhelming paranoia, but no longer. I live in the woods now.

I used the remaining money I had and bought a little cabin in the middle of nowhere, I’m not going to say where, I don’t even trust the reflection program anymore. I got enough supplies for a year and saved enough money for a few more, things are dirt cheap here and my garbage bag cash can be stretched. 

The rubies are all I can think of now. I try not to sleep anymore; the black dream keeps coming back. The thick velvet keeps trying to wrap around my legs and my neck. I am not sure I can escape it, the alternative is too unthinkable to imagine now. I can’t leave the rubies, even writing this down fills me with anxiety of the cold black nothing that feels like it’s waiting for me.

Artemis Aether #Reflection Hour 16:21:

I was wrong, I was so wrong. The rubies are certainly cursed. My legs stopped working yesterday, I don’t know if they are atrophied from sitting and staring into the rubies or if the rubies have a radiation that is degrading my body. I feel like I am in the dream again, my limbs are being swallowed up by the endless nothing. My arms and hands still work, but who knows how long that will last.

I have an idea of how to end this. I will attempt it after I finish writing this reflection entry, who knows if it will be my last. The idea is to let the black velvet claim me, I am tired of being afraid. I am exhausted from this obsession, I am sick of these mesmerizing stones. I don’t care about anything else now, I am just tired. 

I want to feel warm again, like I used to. I found myself stroking the velvet lid of the box. How wonderful would it be to be wrapped in velvet? This time when I sleep tonight I won’t resist. I want to see where this leads. 

Artemis Aether #Reflection Hour 20:31:

It went better than I thought. When I fell asleep the predictable dream descended upon me. The rubies faded and the bleak nothing returned. This time I let the velvet wrap around me, it cocooned me. I felt warm again, this time without the rubies. 

When I woke up I put the rubies back in the black velvet box. I felt the bleak darkness wash over me in my waking state, I felt the empty horizon crash down. My heart felt as if it had stopped, that I had momentarily stepped out of the river of existence and stood there suspended. I was motionless as the dark wave finally ebbed. Then I felt a warmth in my legs again, they started to be able to move. Suspended over the river of time, my legs felt like little marionette legs, dangling over a great chasm. I was a helpless and spasmodic puppet whose strings had suddenly been jangled, shaken by some unseen turbulence.

I snapped, my heart began to beat again, and I realized I was dancing in my dimly-lit cabin. My legs were moving on their own, frantic creatures that were excited to be alive after a long hibernation. I remember laughing and crying as waves of emotions poured out of me. When the tide settled, and the rubies laid quietly within the black velvet box, I knew I was free. 

Now I need to find someone to buy these stones.

The Interview:

The spider crawled up the window, looking for a nice warm place to set up camp and wait for a few gnats or flies. The winter had been particularly rough, and the warm house offered a nice relief. The difficulties of a spider are often over looked, as with most creatures of the “wait and see” types. Creatures that rely almost completely on luck, can’t afford to miss warm opportunities.

Julie was much like a spider, she reflected a lot of characteristics of what people think of when they think of spiders. She hunched her shoulders, her fingers anxiously tapping on the wooden table in a rolling sequence. She looked intently around at the other customers of the bar, using the dim light to hide her observations. Like most superficial associations with animals, she also looked spider like. Her eyes were large, her fingers and nails were thin. Her arms looked more like an exoskeleton than skin and bones.

Regardless of the striking similarities in appearance to a spider, Julie was not the “wait and see” type.  Julie was on her 4^th date via a match making program. They were 20 minutes late and there was no update. Julie looked at her device frequently, tapping her foot and legs under the table to the music blaring in the bar. She looked every time the door opened, looking for that singleton that would beam out the smile of acknowledgment.

Julie waited 15 more minutes, paid her tab and chalked up another night. The program wasn’t perfect, but all of her friends had found someone with it. She vowed one more shot at it before she would try other means, she was not a “wait and see” type.

The next day Julie got up early, took a shower and prepped for her job interview. She was using her day off to find higher employment, she didn’t like her job. She had felt the dead-end claustrophobia for a year now, the glass ceiling slowly fogging over into a glass coffin. She wore her best socks, clean business attire and ate a balanced breakfast. She prepared her responses in the mirror after getting out of the shower, responses to questions like “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” and other such loaded questions.

These questions were never about the particulars but rather the type of person you were. Were you loyal? Ambitious? Uncertain? They were searching for personality profiles just like the match making dating service. Julie knew the game, she had her answers, she knew what creature the company was looking for, she did her research. After a bowl of rice, 2 eggs and a cup of black coffee she was on her way.

The interview was in the cooperate office, a sprawling compound of services and offices. The company owned at least 80% of the city, they provided every service for their employees. As Julie walked into the 4-story building, she could see some of the cafeteria and living space.

The cafeteria had 6 different food styles, live music, a hair salon, bike shop, device services (tailored towards the needs of the company employees) car services, and a spacious dining center. To work in such a place meant living within the corporate spun cocoon, isolated from the rest of the rash of humanity in comfort and ease. Maintaining loyalty from their employees was obviously important to the company. Julie wanted to be maintained.

Julie did not know what to expect from the interview. She was escorted to a small and brightly lit room with 2 chairs on opposite sides of a small white table. She was told to wait and someone else would be with her, the escort shook her hand, wished her good luck and turned away with a comfortable smile. A few moments later a warm beaming older woman in a strict suit walked in. The lady shook Julie’s hand and invited her sit and chat.

The lady did not ask her any of the personality profile questions and anything about her resume. She asked her instead how she felt if the company knew everything about her. Julie had nothing to hide and was eager to get hired, saying without any hesitation that she had no problem with the company knowing everything.

The lady informed her quite clearly that this was not the interview, this was just consent for the interview. A drone-style device would be assigned to her and would be following her for the next 3 weeks to determine if she was a right fit for the company. It wasn’t a drone she would have to maintain, the company would see to everything, she would simply have to go about her day normally. 

Julie had seen people with tag-o-long drones before, little buzzing followers that most people ignored. Julie thought they were rather irritating but eager to get the job she agreed, signed all the paper work and was told the drone device would join her tomorrow at 9:00 pm at her house. She was instructed again to act normally and trust the company.

Julie woke the next morning after an anxiety haunted evening. The drone was waiting outside her door at 9:00 pm. She was determined to behave professionally, reasonably, controlled, and with discipline. These were the painful decisions that had been distilled over the course of the previous evening. She would wear a professional mask for 3 weeks, get the job and go from there. She would appear exactly how she intended, she would hold the role and never break character.

The drone-machine made a visible scan of Julie with a thin green laser, outlining her face as she smiled up at it. Then it did nothing.

Over the next 3 weeks Julie woke at the same time every day, smiled at everyone, was calm and kind in every interaction. She went on another blind date. It went well, she modestly scheduled another follow up date and then a couple more. She didn’t drink too much, she ate reasonably, she exercised, and she kept her house clean and orderly. This wasn’t a complete lie as she had always intended to do such things, however laziness had often seduced her with the tease of tomorrow.

This time she had a reason to be orderly and healthy. By the end of the second week she swallowed her own proverbial cool-aid. She was starting to feel the genuine benefits of a healthy and orderly lifestyle. She wasn’t forcing herself for the appearance in front of the drone-machine. She actually forgot about the small hovering device recording her every action. 

When the third week finished she was already preparing other resumes for other equally large companies with a resolute certainty. She was not going to let chance and circumstance govern her life any longer.  

She never had to submit those other resumes, the company called her back and offered her a job. She was to become a fully assimilated employee. They were looking for cocoon builders just like her.

Home for the Holidays:

Jeremy was excited to have his family around for the holidays. It had been longer than he wanted since he saw everyone, the cousins, the young children, all the wives and husbands of everyone. He was getting older than he wanted too, he was approaching the big nine zero. Jeremy wasn’t superstitious or religious, but something nagged at him, something deep inside his bones. He was one of the great grandparents, nearing the end of the line.

He had lived a good life, taught his children well and provided all he could for his children’s children.  Jeremy had deeply loved his family, it was something he thought a lot about. The last few years he had thought of nothing else, his dreams had been invaded by the family’s concerns. He flew out to New York last year for a wedding, it was one of the few things that kept him going.

The other thing that kept him going was his wife, Helen had been his beloved for 45 years. She died last summer from a heart attack, she was gardening, and he saw her fall over in the middle of weeding. She stood up suddenly, walking a few steps in a forced urgency, then collapsed. Jeremy had rushed to her side, called the ambulance and rung his hands with worry.

She died at the hospital, a sterile affair, sanitized by tears.

This was typical for the people in his life. As he grew older, more people died, all those old conversations lost to the grave. Helen was different, she was part of him insomuch that he was not complete without her. This happens when you spend endless time with someone, their thoughts and habits become something that is no different than the weather, it becomes a fact of life.

For Jeremy the loss of his life partner was an oppressive distraction. Every habit of his daily life was now just a void, an empty hole of 45 years. As though a great chasm opened in his house, in his heart and the heavy loss was a bright reminder. It burned his dreams, it burned his heart to a cinder and the following summer into a cold ash.

Jeremy knew what he wanted to do, he wanted to jump head first into the void, disappear and join Helen in whatever follows the mortal coil. The burden of the loss grew and kept Jeremy up many restless nights, it haunted him. He constantly thought in retrospect, stoking the fires of hindsight. He wasn’t ready to call it, he wasn’t ready for the grave just yet. The cold bones of his half-occupied bed still had an ember burning.

That ember was the promise of the holiday season. However, before the holidays he had some preparations to make, some people to meet with. Jeremy had some old favors to cash in on, some old debts to settle. The big one was resolving beef with his neighbor. Jeremy hated his neighbor, they constantly left trash out, made noise into the late hours and loved crows. His late wife Helen hated crows and Jeremy had gotten in the habit of hating crows too.

He had a little scoped 22 in his bedroom for years, used mainly on crows. Once in a while he would take a shot at the neighbor’s house, just out of spite. He hadn’t met them, he didn’t need to, he knew that people who loved crows were just scavengers of society, just like crows. They were just bottom scrappers, low-lifes, throw-aways, sub human. Maybe Helen’s hatred of crows had infected him.

On a pleasant day in August Jeremy parked his 22 up on his second story window. He waited for his neighbor to walk out of the house, to leave for work, anything that revealed a barren skull for the popping. He waited until 4:30 in the afternoon. The neighbor had no children, at least none that Jeremy ever saw, this made the choice to shoot his neighbor quite a bit easier.

At 4:31 the neighbor was plinked in the brain pan. Their life stopped suddenly and without warning, there was no ambulance, there was no beloved to rush outside to see why they had fallen. They just laid there. Jeremy watched from his window each morning to see if anyone had discovered his dead neighbor, each day saying to himself “good riddance”.

Each day the crows came and ate a little, they squawked and pecked at his eyes and face first (the tenderest bits) then slowly over the next month ate the whole body. By November the crows stopped coming around, the body had disappeared without anyone noticing except Jeremy.  That’s when the 89-year-old widower had an epiphany, he would disappear, there would be no corpse to mourn or decay to see.

Of course, this plan would have to be after the holidays. He was “going on a trip” and would leave shortly after Christmas. He would buy the ticket, pack his bags and then “disappear”. The idea crept up like a guilty chill of the wind. He would drown himself and hide the body in the ocean. He had a small dingy and no one knew he had it, it would be an easy task, and hopefully spare the vivid loss from his family. 

Thanksgiving rolled around, and the plans were set in action, the neighbor’s crows were long gone, off to scavenge some other decaying part of society. He had called in every family member he knew, he guilted, asked, and begged everyone to come.

Christmas was exactly like he expected, all the cooing newborns, the chattering life of family. The great fire of his progeny continuing on the march of life. They were all there, in a glorious affirmation of the biggest reason for living. The house was filled with love and light for all to bask in.

Jeremy secretly said goodbye to his family, seeing all of them brought him peace. A few days later he rowed the little dingy out into the sea and fastened a few weights to his feet. He looked to the endless horizon of water, he looked to the twinkling night sky and with a heavy sigh, threw himself into the black water. 

Down he went, the cold water chilling his bones, finally extinguishing the last ember of his bones. His last thought was of Helen, the last light of his heart winking out under the waves.

Vines of Carcosa:

I used to have a roommate, he paid his rent on time and cleaned up after himself. Now it is just me, for the first time in my life I am living alone. There is no consideration anymore about noise or guests or who will unload the dishwasher. It is just me, and it feels pretty amazing.

The circumstance of my roommate leaving is not as pleasant. They went missing, they never came home after work. I filed a missing person case after 3 days, I called his friends and family to see if they had seen him. His mother came over and collected some items in a mask of nervous tears. I have never seen anyone more tortured than a mother without answers to what happened to their little child. I have a pretty good idea presently as to why, but at the time I sympathized with the senselessness of the disappearance.

The cops came and asked me a ton of questions, they took a few items as well. I filled out more paperwork and haven’t heard from them since. Every week I hear from my roommate’s mother, I tell her the same thing, I haven’t seen or heard anything. Every week it gets harder to lie to her, I do know something, but it isn’t something that I can’t repeat to her, not to that heart broken mother. Better that it remains senseless and unknown.

You see, after everyone had taken items from my roommate’s bedroom I took my turn in the investigation. I scoured places that perhaps the cops and his mother did not look. There was access to the attic from the closet in the abandoned room, a small 2-foot square plywood door. I found an old cigar box and a recently used notebook, a diary. The entries started 2 months ago and ended predictably the day before the disappearance.

Within the notebook was a extensive dream diary. Each entry was filled with a recounting of their nighttime remembrances. I decided not to tell his mother until I had read them all the way through, the diary wasn’t going anywhere, and I really didn’t want provide fuel for that poor woman’s imagination. I found the entries to be lengthy and extremely detailed. Each entry was about 4-5 pages long for each night. I had never remembered my dreams in the detailed way these pages described.

I read as much as I could the night I found the book, the dreams where pretty typical. There was a few of falling dreams, spiders and a reoccurring dream I began to call the “Tooth Dream”. The dream was described as a chipped tooth or cracked tooth crumbling in their mouth. They would then try to spit out the pieces of teeth, then to discover more broken teeth parts in their mouth. They would try and pull out the pieces, spit out the pieces or rinse them out. However, each time there would be more and more pieces of teeth to remove until the shock of being toothless would wake them up. The dialog from the entry was troubled by this and wondered about the meaning of such a reoccurring dream.

A few days later I found myself having a similar dream but woke up before finding myself toothless. I continued to read and found the dream diary captivating. The next couple of extended entries a new reoccurring dream started to take shape, they dreamed of a dismal place. The place was a dark land with two suns, a still lake and dim shadows that played between the twilight of the two suns. The descriptions gravitated towards this place, each entry became clearer. On the 4^th night of dreaming of this place my roommate named the place, he called it “Lost Carcosa”.

Predictably I also found myself caught up in the delightful details of such a place. I dreamed of Lost Carcosa too, the first time. It was vivid beyond any dream I have ever had. The two suns glowed with a dull white light, the lake was as still as eternity, it seemed untouched by any turbulence or wind. As if the lake was made of a black glass stretched over the horizon. This was also the first time I heard the music of Carcosa, a song hung on those black stars and terrible suns, it floated into every atom of my being. I could not wake up as I did with the toothless dream, I dreamed of the rapture of Carcosa until my alarm shook me from the abysmal lullaby.

My better judgment told me to stop reading. It was too late I think, I had heard the song of sweet Carcosa. I continued to read the dream diary, feeling connected to the places and descriptions now. This felt less and less like a rendition of dreams and more a journaling of an expedition into the fevered lands of Dim Carcosa. There were creatures and plants that the diary described, black and green molds, slimes of predatory intentions. Sludges that lived by the lake, squirmy and wiggling organisms that were native to Carcosa, whose biology lacked the common understanding of the waking world. I soaked all the information that diary held, like a dry sponge. I soaked and soaked, reading every word with eager eyes.

I read to the end of the lengthy diary, gorging myself on the exotic meal. The diary ended with a description of bramble, or rather a creeping thing that resembled vine-like behavior. The diary also complained about a headache, as if worms where crawling behind their eyes in the waking hours.

I dreamed heavy the next night. I could not get enough of the sweet music of Carcosa. I also began to suspect that my roommate had not disappeared but had perhaps traveled completely into Carcosa. I was determined to investigate, to look for the bramble vines of this strange twilight world. 

Every night I dreamed wholly of Carcosa, it was becoming familiar, a second home. I found what may be considered life in those dancing shadows, crawling sounds and half formed murmurs. In my investigation I did find what the dream dairy may have meant, a vine-like plant. It had thorns and long twisted branches that moved slowly as the two suns overhead exchanged positions. In one such dreamscape expedition I tugged and tore at the vines looking to learn more about them.

The vines were coming from little hills of lose black sand. A strong pull and the vines would become uprooted. The roots were attached to a yellow and white skull. I repeated this excavation with another group pf vines and discovered another skull at the vine’s base. Each skull housing a black root ball that splayed out the vine-thing’s brambles. 

From this experience I would guess that my roommate had become prey to one of these creatures of Carcosa, his skull used as a mechanism for its own continuation. I doubt his mother would believe me if I told her, nor would the cops have any interest in this dream land they can not see. Perhaps it is better that my roommate’s disappearance remains senseless and unknown. 

I may have lost a roommate, but I have gained a world, Carsoa where the two suns of the black sands cross. The silent reflection of the still water and all the crawling murmurs creep on that dim horizon. Perhaps one day I will disappear into that sweet music and my head will house those skull-vines that squirms in those long shadows.

Merchandise in Paradise:

Vivian wondered why the delivery driver was taking so long unloading the package. She wanted to run outside and help, maybe just slap some urgency into them. The 3^rd story window only provided a tease of what was going on inside the delivery truck. Vivian held the curtain over her face like a veil, she wanted to scream, patience had never been her strong suit.

Waiting for the package had been one of the most difficult things in her life, she had always known ease and desire, everything she had wanted she could get. Holding the curtain up against her face was an ambush position. She waited with chattering teeth for 6 minutes before a lazy driver started their walk to the front door. 

The package required a dolly, it was wrapped in excessive pallet wrap and looked like a medium sized refrigerator. The driver rolled it up to the front door and rang the doorbell. The chime sung through the house and startled Vivian, even though she knew it was coming. She raced downstairs, 3 floors of beautifully laid oak flooring, she slid slightly on her wool socks. 

When she answered the door, the driver had the signing device ready and asked if she was Vivian. She nodded, signed quickly and dismissed the driver with a condescending motion of the hand. She rarely talked and preferred talking to servants even less. The apathetic driver shrugged and continued their day of driving to no place in particular, delivering nothing in particular to people they didn’t care about. 

Vivian cared particularly about this package and she cared about herself more than anyone else. Apathy was her arch-nemesis and her desires were sharpened knives. She retrieved her dolly from the 3-car garage (filled with her 3 favorite cars) and the sharpest knife from her kitchen. She loved using this particular knife, a Damascus custom blade, worth more than other knifes (the important part). The glint of the beautiful knife was reflected in her grin as she slashed the cardboard and pallet wrap with a brutish lust. 

The front entry way was covered in cardboard and trash and underneath all the wrapping was a crate of sorts. A smooth black foot locker with dials and buttons on the top, a small booklet of instructions lay on the ground, unused and unwanted. Vivian had researched this for months and this moment wasn’t something she wanted muddled by technicalities. 

The box contained an android, a purchasable servant. She had painstakingly chosen its appearance and style, she had customized all the bells and whistles. This was a luxury model; the latest technology was sunk into its bones for high-end consumers like Vivian. She examined the lifeless form, she stroked the smooth skin and fingered the closed eyelids in a curious molestation of the creature.

It wasn’t wearing clothes, she admired all her previous choices of attributes and smiled. The hands were the exact dimensions, the skin tone, the hair length, every detail was created to her honed desires. The dead creature gleamed like an angel unearthed from an ancient tomb never before touched by human hands. This was truer than Vivian thought, the creature had been assembled, created and packaged without a single human being looking or touching it. Vivian savored the moment, she etched the scene into her skull, burned it into her teeth. She wouldn’t forget this, and with the knife still in her hand she turned the creature on. 

A high-pitched whine issued from the creature and the sound disappeared into the upper frequencies. The yellow eyes opened, and a warm smile swept over their face. They sat up and began looking around. This model was programmed not to speak, another one of Vivian’s preferences. The creature stood up and bowed deeply to Vivian, cautiously noticing the knife and seeing the grinning woman. 

Vivian spoke her first command: “Clean up this mess and make me some dinner SLAVE.” The unnamed creature began cleaning at once. They stooped and cleaned with utmost carefulness, caring and considerate of the other exotic objects in the house. They downloaded the network diagrams and began organizing tasks based on the command. The kitchen was immaculate to begin with and after a meal of the utmost quality the kitchen was cleaned to its original state of Vivian’s sense of perfection.  

The next few months the android obediently followed every order from Vivian, from the grotesque to the mundane. They were programmed for contentment and obedience, and Vivian was satisfied with the performance. However, Vivian rarely stayed satisfied. 

Vivian began trying to irritate the android, having it do meaningless tasks, contradictory orders, logical impossibilities. She became more abusive and restless. One evening, in a particular night of frustration she went and got her Damascus kitchen knife, she went into the front room and without saying anything stabbed the android. Of course, a single stab did very little damage, this only infuriated Vivian.  

What transpired from that frustration resulted in a sizable mess in her front room, bio-lubrication liquid soaked into her oak flooring and body parts littered the house. Sweaty and exhausted from murdering her android Vivian felt a little release. She looked down at her knife and a black thought suck up into her brain. 

A few weeks later another package arrived. Vivian’s desire was growing sharper by the year.

The Visitor:

When it rains, the hole in the roof lets a little water through. The trickle soaks deep into the wood, it winds and twists around the wooden beams. I have patched it up a few times, I get on the tall ladder and replace what I can. The ladder wobbles and bends, but I need to stop the leaks and there is no other way.

The gutters are full too, full to the edge with brown debris. Pine needles and leaves of half decayed slime hang on the rusted edges. I get my gloves on and scoop it out while at the top of the long ladder. I toss clumps down to the ground, sometimes there is more than leaves and debris. Sometimes there is colored threads, red, white, yellow and green. I know where they come from.

The threads are from decaying flags on a line in my front yard. They don’t always clump up in the gutter, sometimes little birds get a hold of them and use them in their nests. Little finches with red and yellow strings skitter in the trees and bushes. Sometimes the threads look like hair from a creature, as if a homunculus perished and rolled into the metal gutters.

It has been years since anyone lived here. I cleaned the last body 10 years ago, an older woman who passed away quietly. No one came to her bedside and no one noticed when she died. I remember that day clearly, her face was wrinkled in a peaceful smile. I asked the walls what she dreamed of before she slipped into the greater blackness. They kept their mouths shut, pursed tight in the high corners of the room.

I sleep in the basement, inside an iron pot filled with ashes and stones. I keep that clean too, I dust all the shadows, sweeping spiders out of the old woman’s tomb. I sweep the floors and vacuum the carpet, even without people living here, the dust constantly tries to reclaim its rightful territory.

Today I repaired one of the rotten beams in the attic. The water had fully soaked it. It burrowed deep into the wood. Recalling a vision from the old woman’s memory, I lit a small fire and spread the ashes on the rotten wood. It turned black and the rot disappeared, replaced with a jet-black hardwood that had a pleasant warmth to the touch.

Most of my days are filled with such repairs and upkeep. The kingdom of dust is always inching up to the house, the garden had been claimed and the driveway is overgrown. I am unable to leave the house for now, I tried to call a service to come and maintain the grounds. No one seems to be able to hear my voice over the phone. I tried using the old woman’s device to message people to come and prune the garden. There is no connectivity here, it is a cage but at least it is a clean cage.

Later that night the haunt slept uneasy, the attic repair finished and the gutters clean. The night sky was filled with swaying trees and a soft music. The wind had come to the forgotten garden and clean house. It knocked on the doors and the windows with brittle branches, and the haunt gathered itself to welcome the wind. They open all the windows and the doors, it had been so long since there had been a visitor. The curtains were drawn back, and the bed was prepared.

The wind came in and flew around the house, inspecting every corner. It blew all the cabinets open, looked into the closets and under the beds. The wind searched every corner of the silent walls, it looked into the iron pot where the haunt slept and it danced in the front room with whirling spirals.

The haunt bowed and smiled and once the wind settled in. The haunt moved the furniture from the front room, storing it in another guest room. The wind waited patiently, curiously watching the haunt bustle around the house. The wind paused briefly.

The haunt offered their hand to the wind and stood in the center of the front room. The wind let out a great gust, a jubilant tornado jumped at the offer. Hand in hand the gentle gust moved around and through the haunt, quiet like a whisper. The wind moved in a slow method and the haunt matched each step. They bowed and bent, they twirled in lovely circles. The night rose up in that dark room, its dark dream flowed out from the haunt and the wind.

For the remaining evening the haunt and the wind danced in the front room, each taking turns dreaming the darkness and drinking the night. The wind finally ebbed and laid itself to rest on the prepared bed. The haunt was content and pleased that a visitor had finally come. They watched the stars outside and waited for the sun to rise, quietly listening to the sleeping sounds of the wind. 

In the morning the wind blew on, leaving pine needles and leaves on the roof and in the gutters. The haunt smiled, grateful for something to do. They got out the wobbly long ladder and began cleaning again. They hummed softly to themselves, thinking of the dreams still yet to dream and the dances still yet to dance.

Fictional Obituaries of Forgotten People:

Gregory Mathis:

Gregory Mathis was born to a woman of limited concerns. She loved one thing and it wasn’t Gregory, it was heroin. She went through detox when he did, the detox natal room was dim and quiet. The nurses talked on low voices and swaddled him often. The sweat was tenderly soaked from Gregory’s brow every hour. His mother didn’t stay off heroin for long, but Gregory did.

Gregory was 6 years old when his mother died of an overdose and he started the trail into foster homes. The path through childhood was sparse and filled with eager idealists. None of the homes reached Gregory, each time he recoiled. He was lost in the memories of his mother. He would watch her for hours as she laid on the mattress, occasionally moaning and rolling over. Day after day as his child brain formed.

There is a line of dialog in the movie The Crow: “Mother is the word for god on the lips and hearts of children.” This was true for Gregory regardless of his mother being a catatonic ghost.

This experience could not be undone by good intentions or a warm hearth. His god was dead, and likely she was never really alive. He trusted no-one and accepted the torrents of change as they moved him from home to home. He was numb to the bone before he was 10 years old. He finally settled a little in an orphanage called “Children’s Town”, a place he was returned when the host family didn’t work out. 

Some of the employees and volunteers had given up on Gregory, secretly, nothing explicit with their voices. They all professed to care for each child, a lie Gregory had gotten used to. In fact, Gregory had learned plenty of adult lies in his time through the homes and system that he weaved through. Each home had a lie, buried underneath the pleasant smiles and eager eyes. It burrowed deep in people and Gregory could see it. They were all just like his mother, mouthing words and waving hands attached to sacks of meat waiting to expire.

Those that didn’t give up on Gregory kept him fed and clothed, kept him going to school and kept him warm. They had the same hearts as the nurses that swaddled him. Gregory didn’t trust them either, they were just doing their job, their words were just a soft note to lull him to sleep. Needless to say, Gregory did not connect with anyone, ever.

As Gregory got older, the perception of everyone being liars increased. The predictable rash of adolescence flared up and moved him right into prison when he became an adult. He got out at 22 and continued his downward spiral.  He discovered heroin. 

The drug was like going home, a home that had no place on earth. A home where he could ignore all the lies of society, all the anger that he had for his fellow man. The brown sugar medicine was cheap, and it was easy to get. Every time he took it, he could see his mother on the bed rolling over slightly and moaning just a little. Something in his bones, something deep down screamed every time he took the drug. It was part of him, it was something he was born to do, and everything made sense while under its effects. 

Society was the ghost and his mother was real. People were just flat faces, but the golden glow that filled his veins, that was real, that was important. The drug brought Gregory more clarity than anything in his life, it filled him up, to the brim and a little extra. 

Years rolled by, Gregory scrapped the bottom of society with yellow finger nails. He needed little and bothered no-one, if he could get his brown sugar medicine. When he couldn’t get heroin or there was a complication in his medicinal acquisition, then his knuckles turned red with the faces of those in his way. He managed to stay ahead of the law, he knew the rules. If he went back to prison, then he would get no medicine and the Haunt of society would return. 

He dreamed of the Haunt a few times, a dream of sweat and cold ice. Gregory suffered withdraws in the harshest of ways, it was down in his bones. There were no nurses around to talk in sweet voices or swaddle his rotten bones. He dreamed himself somewhere else when his body convulsed in the pain of withdraws. He went to the Haunt. The Haunt is described by Gregory himself on a fast food wrapper, penned in panic:

“The world spins with barbed wire and my bones don’t move. The wire shreds my guts and I see the bones of people all thrown together in a heap. I can see it, just the top of a sweaty ice berg, as if I am looking over sea of cold water. I can hear it murmuring and shifting, just below the horizon, the Haunt is coming for me. “

Of course, Gregory’s hallucinations and broken brain told him all kinds of things to make sure he kept taking his brown sugar medicine. None of these were true, but Gregory believed them. On a cold day in 2013, on the 7^th of December he took too much medicine. It was in a fast food restaurant bathroom. He saw his mother, he saw the Haunt, he saw everything his brain could show him. Then he just slipped into a deep and peaceful darkness, no more lies. 

Gregory Mathis lived by bones he was born with.

No Bones About It:

Rachel Evansworth, 3^rd day of Twilight Crest:

I normally don’t write very much, I am grateful my mother taught me. I have had nightmares for the last few nights, maybe writing them unto these pages will help me understand them. The first nightmare was one of an ancient time, a time when the bonds of my family’s blood was pure. The nightmare boiled out of the flower of night wind and it took me with it. We were running, me and my husband and our children, we fled into the fields, running from a great iron hound. It’s gigantic haunches creaking, its breath a hot steam of anger. 

In my nightmare I could use magic, like in the days my mother had told me about. I uttered words I have never heard spoken and the words sent us flying into the sky, I remember looking down at the iron hound as it howled. I awoke with the old words on my lips, but they dissolved out of my head before I could remember. The next night the boiling nightmare returned, this time from inside our farmhouse, deep under the cellar. The nightmare was a murmur, there were hundreds of voices all trying to speak, all at once. 

I tried to listen within the dreamscape but I could not make out any words, just a rising tide of whispers without understanding. They sounded like my own voice, perhaps of my ancestors. They spoke in a strange speech that I have never heard living voices make, a speech that only decayed organs can produce. I was enraptured within my nightmare, until I heard my name spoken clearly and the understanding of the black speech shook me awake in a panic. 

I feel compelled to look into my cellar, just to feel the soil. I think getting my hands dirty may help. I am cautious about telling my husband, I am not sure why. 

Rachel Evansworth, 14^th day of Twilight Crest:

I don’t know what to do. My husband is becoming sicker each day and I think it is my fault. He doesn’t deserve this. Going to the cellar unearthed more than I imagined. I found the bones of my mother, my grandmother and from the markings, perhaps back hundreds of generations. I don’t know how my mother’s bones got into the vast room under the house. It looks like a crypt, I haven’t explored all of it yet, but it is ancient beyond my understanding. 

When I unearthed the entrance, my husband was in the field, I explored alone. I heard whispers coming from the dark tunnels, they sounded like my nightmares uttering the black speech that only the dead know. This time I started to understand them, they spoke to my blood and knew me by name. They guided me to an altar that housed a brown and red book. The book held our family’s history and the words of our oldest mothers, at least that’s what the whispers told me.

I took the book and hid the entrance to the crypt below. I read the book in secret for days, it spoke of medicine, magical arts and the preservation of life. I could read the words, but each time I spoke the words out loud my head throbbed, down to the bone. My skull ached from the incantations.

I don’t know why I continued, but a week later my husband fell sick. He sleeps more and more each day, malaise and stupor haunt him. I think I can help him, but before that I must do something about this skull ache. I did manage to find a recipe for my own pain, but it requires the brittle skull of one of the whispering dead in the crypt. 

I also had another occurrence that is worth writing down. I was collecting eggs from my chickens when I heard one of the chickens cry out as if being attacked by a predator. I discovered the chicken was wearing a bright white skull of a child over its own head. It was running around squawking terribly. I grabbed a broom and tried to knock the skull off its head. The broom connected, and the small skull flew off hitting the wall. The chicken’s beak and eyes had decayed, leaving holes and a twisted beak. The squawk from the chicken reminded me of whispering dead voices beneath. I culled the creature, and saved its blood for some of the recipes I will be creating.

Rachel Evansworth, 4^th day of Moonwake:

My husband is dead, well his mortal life has ended. I found a recipe to revive him to continue the field work. He argues less, and I no longer have to feed him. My children have fallen to the same illness, but the book has answers for them too. I feel invigorated with the black speech, finally my blood boils with the ancient heritage of the Endless Mother. I figured out how to alleviate the incessant head ache, I am going to simulaculate my pain into a host object.  This will free my tongue to utter the deepest of the book’s passages.

My nightmares have deepened, they grow blacker and darker each night. The voices of the whispering dead grow clearer, they have so much wisdom and knowledge locked away their bones. It is just waiting to be uncovered. One such of my nightmares I was sitting proudly on a throne of children’s bones, my family’s bones. A bleak storm of ice and voices howled back at the night, it was a cold wind from the depths of the earth calling for the end of all things bright and warm. 

Perhaps if the simulaculation goes as well as the voices say it will, I may live to see such a nightmare. The rush of power from the black speech curls my fingers in elation. I think nothing would be sweeter than to be alive to see the end of all days. Such a black fate would be the greatest of all delights.

Doctor Duality’s Dialectical Dissertation #6:

The fog this morning brought horns from the passing barges. The long sound pierced the moody morning with a bellow, like a creature crying out to the blindness of the fog. Creatures large and small go about their lives, human beings being the least affected by the opaque weather. Their devices, machines and timetables are not affected by atmospheric weather, their moodiness is darker.

The mood of the human creature is altogether grim, their sadness springs like weeds from their bones. A relentless organism that is bound up in the world much in the same way as their innocent nature dwelling cousins. Their bodies need food, their programing set on procreation, the mechanisms of any living creature. However, there is a fog in the human mind, there is no bellow, there is no signal from the darkness.

Some part of our imagination or consciousness or whatever your sensibilities may call it, is aware of a vast emptiness, (this may also be seen as a divine light.) Regardless of the preference in details, the largeness of existence is often terrifying rather than divine. One person’s heaven is another’s hell.

This vast emptiness is filled with the worm wiggling motion of the human brain. We seem to be horrified by the emptiness, so much that we pour explanation after explanation into it. Religion and institutions all take their turn, often chewing up people in the process. Some people leave institutions and turn inward toward a spiritual path, walking a road of internal constellations, walking the stars and filling the emptiness with personal meaning and worth.

The fog does not relent, the vastness is never filled, and the spiritual path leads to certainty and denial of the desolate landscape that fills every horizon. The fog might never end and morning after morning inches its way back up the spine and into the brain. This venom of awareness is in our bones, for lack of a better term it is our birthright, born into a world with an awareness of the endless blackness. If your language or culture sees eternal light, or divinity, this is much the same concept, an experience of the opaque. You can not see past it, you cannot see through it.

The reason I would not call it divine, is that it may not be altogether a good thing, it may not be a holy thing. Existence, whatever its qualities may be, has no blue print, it has no standard or foundation of goodness, divinity or holiness. While some may see evidence for divinity everywhere they look, as their experience shows a profound (and temporary) serenity or joy, this is not true for all people. The subjective nature of existence, or existing with this burdensome imagination may be in fact, a completely horrible thing.

A truly objective perspective may show that the universe is a blank slate, a pristine first printing of nothingness, waiting to be filled. However, human beings are rarely objective, and we require points of reference, constellations to guide every action, every choice within a human world. We do not sit on a throne above existence, we are in fact down in it, we are dirty with the scars of experience. We are mutilated by the consequences of chance and choice.

For those unable to find the path of denial, for those unable to turn their eyes away from the void or the light or whatever you want to call it, it can become unbearable. The terrifying largeness is crushing, the monumental weight of such a great blackness that rolls over each moment and replacing it with another frantic experience. Like a parade of angels beating great silver cymbals in a relentless wave of crashing glass. To watch such an event for too long seems to result in bleeding eyes and broken hearts.

For those unable to endure the tirelessness of existence there is a door. This dark door has a key, and everyone born has this key inscribed within their skulls, it sits there resting on a shelf. The key is non-existence, it is the dignity of choice. The choice to decide that that existence isn’t alright, it isn’t worth experiencing, it isn’t worth continuing. Such a decision is not seen very favorably by the remaining human beings that, with the same dignity of choice have chosen to continue, have decided that life is worth it.

Of course, saying that life is worth living and it is worth continuing may be entirely based on the biological mechanism of continuing our species. As any successful organism, this programming is paramount and frequently overrides our better judgment. How many people can be sacrificed for the greater good? How many lives are worth winning a war? 

Such questions validate war and existence, implying there is an arithmetic that can be done, and an answer obtained. For some though, the unsung mourners of the great blackness, these questions only illustrate the horror that lies within our skulls. These questions are alleys and side roads back into the void, another example of the meaningless of war, their eyes forced yet again see the unbearable vastness. 

Sometimes, people are done with it all. They have seen all that is important decay and turn to dust. They could be hostage to relentless physical pain, or mental derangement. Some people are born with a flavor for sadism, murder or destruction. Would it not be merciful to allow such human beings to opt out of existence with the dignity of choice intact?  

Saying that life is worth living starts with the assumption that existence is a good thing. Depending on the point of entrance into existence this could very easily be considered wishful thinking. There are thousands of existences that are intolerable, and many fates worse than death. Even if you are born to the best conditions for existence you can still be suffocated by potential and dread. We are born scrambling with endless tasks and choices, each crossroads adding consequences in heaps to someone or something else. Responsibility slowly piles up with an unbearable weight, heavy with helplessness.

The fog begins burning off by the early afternoon and the clear sky shines bright, the birds chirp and the squirrels scuttle. The joy of life turns a blind eye to all the human beings not born and all the suffering they didn’t endure. Non-existence has never hurt anyone, and I would not begrudge those wishing to return to the pristine first printing of the blank pages of nothingness.

The horn bellows again as the fog finally leaves the bay and the machinery of existence continues on with or without anyone in particular