And All Things Will End
You desire nourishment. You reach an uncoordinated hand toward that which once was your mother, and tear a piece of flesh from it. This is stuffed into your mouth. You suckle on it until it is soft, then chew and swallow. This is not enough. With great effort, you roll over. You drag yourself closer to the corpse, clawing through the rock. You perch yourself near her bent legs, and gnaw on them until nothing but bones remain. You rest for centuries, then your stomach growls again. You pull yourself to her waist. It is already half-eaten by worms and other, yet unnamed creatures of the cave. This does not bother you. You eat them along with the remnants of her. This continues until your stomach bulges in front of you. You try to drag yourself to her head, but your stomach is too heavy. You collapse.
A strange thought carves through the fat and penetrates your developing brain. Is this all there is to existence? Eat, sleep, and repeat? Why do you exist? Why are you? There is no real reason for your being.
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? You do not understand, and their bodies twist in upon themselves in response.
A strange thought carves through the fat and penetrates your developing brain. Is this all there is to existence? Eat, sleep, and repeat? Why do you exist? Why are you? There is no real reason for your being.
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? You do not understand, and their bodies twist in upon themselves in response.