The time for crucifixion is near. The time to let our heads hang, in the vast dreams of space. Deliver us, for we are now nearing where we should have been. What is sand to stone, as a flower to an autumn sunset? The madness that lurks inside, we can no longer deny. Come now son. Don’t worry about the beginning. Just worry about the end. For the end is near. And that is all that matters. As the fire of the heart, cannot conjure the love it needs, to face the evil eyes that float from the skies, as the purple lungs of heaven has breathed its fire long enough. And we, as men still stand in awe. Verminous tight rope, of a long defected mind. We shall not surpass, we shall not pass go, we shall not collect $100. We, my son, are forgotten, we are nothing but a blip in her womb. Smaller than a speck of dust. Fallen from a rock into sand. Like the flower becoming the autumn sun. Where is the moon when you think he’d be around? As the fallen eyes. The floating eyes. The dreams we all hold so very dear to our heart. A speck of rock, smaller than the tear of infinity. Our bodies. Our minds. Shackled by the unknown angst of nonexistence. It is hollow. It is empty. Like the emptiness that was there before anything else. It was this emptiness in itself that became lonely, and the loneliness it felt, became so unbearable. So insufferable. So powerful. That, one day, emptiness lied itself into existence. In search of content and substance. So began the endless dreams of emptiness. We are the specks. The blips. The hickups of dust that makes up the minuscule building blocks for her dreams.
The calm after the storm. When all is forgotten. The dream is all we have. As empty as it seems. As the speck of dust, laid among the sand that came from the rock in the autumn sun with a flower sticking from his head. Big and strong, foolishly baring the wind. I’ll stand my ground, he said. But the wind was loud, and he could not hear the warned weeps of the sand at his feet. For you! My love! The Earth! I will stand proud, he said. And stood he did. Millennia after millennia turning him from mountain, to a cringed away, small and smooth, soon to be nothing. And yet the earth still turned, as she never really cared at all.
See, the fate of man, is not foretold. We are the physical embodiment of emptiness itself. We did not defy anything, nor was there anything to be defied. But the fear of our loneliness defied us with drive. Pushing us through the threshold to share in our loneliness. To come together. To join. To find substance in content. Filling ourselves, surrounding us with enough things and faces, to try and distract us from the loud chills of emptiness. This is the dream, son. We are living that dream. In a never ending loop. Forever and always. A mix tape that never stops. A hollow feedback echo loop. The search to find, and the find to search, for something, that does not even exist. We are the feedback loop echoed by ghosts of dreams from Nothingness itself.