And All Things Will End
The darkness holds unimaginable evils to a young being such as yourself, and the mere suggestion of beings in the shadow terrifies you. You long for the embrace of your mother, but she is not moving. You cannot understand. What has happened to her? You stare at her with wide eyes, begging her for a response. Silence. Her skin seems to sag a little more. You close your eyes, hoping that when you open them she will be back.
This does not happen. There is no one to protect you from the horrors of the world, none to swaddle you in warmth and whisper to you in soft tones that all should be okay.
In your fear questions begin to arise. Why do you exist? Why are you? There is no reason for your being. You are nothing but a scared infant trapped underground.
Is this all there is to existence? To live in fear of the shadows and what lurks inside them? Your developing brain cannot come up with adequate answers.
You fall into a troubled sleep. Your dreams are tattered visions and haze-filled locales that reinforce your confusion. Why should you continue your existence? Why not return to the unconsciousness and cold uniformity of nonexistence?
These thoughts do not remain entangled within your skull. They leak out into the atmosphere around you. They permeate the air, and taint the water of the nearby spring. They infest the minds of the sleeping villagers. They grow stronger as your dreams grow more feverish.
Soon, the villagers are questioning their lives as well. They live in an unbroken loop, undergoing the same daily tasks to no end. For what purpose? There is no inherent meaning to anything. There is only the meaning and purpose ordained by society, and this is man-made and subject to personal bias. The villagers convene, and discuss this. Why should they continue to exist and live mired in pain, and weighed down by misery? There is no answer. They cry out and pray, but no response is forthcoming. They rail against the invasive miasma spreading from you, but they cannot fight it for long.
You continue sleeping, your rest only broken by the occasional need to squeal, writhe, piss, defecate, and eat.
Looping.
Looping.
Looping.
A solution is proposed. The steps are undertaken. They welcome it with open arms, embracing it wholeheartedly. They smile as the flesh is torn from their bodies. They cry out in thanks as the knife slides across their throat. They are at peace. Eternal peace.
Some resist. Some retreat down into the mines for safety. These people become twisted according to your unconscious desires. You look upon them with your closed eyes, and wonder at their body. You question it; why do your arms extend that way? Why is your skin so soft? Would it not be better if your head grew from a different spot? You do not understand, and their bodies twist in upon themselves in response.
This does not happen. There is no one to protect you from the horrors of the world, none to swaddle you in warmth and whisper to you in soft tones that all should be okay.
In your fear questions begin to arise. Why do you exist? Why are you? There is no reason for your being. You are nothing but a scared infant trapped underground.
Is this all there is to existence? To live in fear of the shadows and what lurks inside them? Your developing brain cannot come up with adequate answers.
You fall into a troubled sleep. Your dreams are tattered visions and haze-filled locales that reinforce your confusion. Why should you continue your existence? Why not return to the unconsciousness and cold uniformity of nonexistence?
These thoughts do not remain entangled within your skull. They leak out into the atmosphere around you. They permeate the air, and taint the water of the nearby spring. They infest the minds of the sleeping villagers. They grow stronger as your dreams grow more feverish.
Soon, the villagers are questioning their lives as well. They live in an unbroken loop, undergoing the same daily tasks to no end. For what purpose? There is no inherent meaning to anything. There is only the meaning and purpose ordained by society, and this is man-made and subject to personal bias. The villagers convene, and discuss this. Why should they continue to exist and live mired in pain, and weighed down by misery? There is no answer. They cry out and pray, but no response is forthcoming. They rail against the invasive miasma spreading from you, but they cannot fight it for long.
You continue sleeping, your rest only broken by the occasional need to squeal, writhe, piss, defecate, and eat.
Looping.
Looping.
Looping.
A solution is proposed. The steps are undertaken. They welcome it with open arms, embracing it wholeheartedly. They smile as the flesh is torn from their bodies. They cry out in thanks as the knife slides across their throat. They are at peace. Eternal peace.
Some resist. Some retreat down into the mines for safety. These people become twisted according to your unconscious desires. You look upon them with your closed eyes, and wonder at their body. You question it; why do your arms extend that way? Why is your skin so soft? Would it not be better if your head grew from a different spot? You do not understand, and their bodies twist in upon themselves in response.