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The ground was gray and flat and featureless, a vast metallic expanse. And the sky reflected that sameness in a smooth, milky, dirty-white dome. There was no wind. There was no sound. Nothing ever changed.
But I was there (wherever 'there' was). I breathed. I walked... and every footfall was the same. The light, more a weak, universal, ambient glow, never changed. And the only thing to see was the horizon.
Sometimes I sat, cross-legged, 'Indian Style,' and waited. Perhaps a bird or even an insect would fly over the long sharp line? The sky might change. A cloud might form. Some rain might fall. But I never saw such things. And I never felt hunger, or thirst, or anything, save the cool, pore-less, silvery plain beneath my body. I called it silver, but it might have just been nickle.
I'd stare at my shirtsleeve for hours... I called them hours. I studied the weave. Each line became a street. Every cross point an intersection. Some had trees. Some had buildings. Some housed people. Some hid monsters. But it was hard to focus and soon I would forget.
It was possible to sleep, but considering the 'bed.' the experience was hardly restorative. The surface had no 'give,' and my bones hurt.
I am a microbe... a sub-atomic particle, on a huge ball bearing rolling nowhere.
But once, it was different. I drank iced tea and saw moonbeams. I said things and people answered. I read books and brushed my teeth.
Yet the universe plays tricks. Tiny pin pricks of rare singularities exist there. Sometimes they hit things and gobble them up. I was such a meal.
Once I was 'there,' and now I am'here.' I suppose tiny germ-things wriggle on my skin. But I can't see them. I lay on my stomach and taste the ground. But my tongue is dry. I sense nothing. Even my nails fail to grow.
Dreams? I do not have them.
Perhaps I'll go blind and lose the horizon too?
* * * * * * * *
But I was there (wherever 'there' was). I breathed. I walked... and every footfall was the same. The light, more a weak, universal, ambient glow, never changed. And the only thing to see was the horizon.
Sometimes I sat, cross-legged, 'Indian Style,' and waited. Perhaps a bird or even an insect would fly over the long sharp line? The sky might change. A cloud might form. Some rain might fall. But I never saw such things. And I never felt hunger, or thirst, or anything, save the cool, pore-less, silvery plain beneath my body. I called it silver, but it might have just been nickle.
I'd stare at my shirtsleeve for hours... I called them hours. I studied the weave. Each line became a street. Every cross point an intersection. Some had trees. Some had buildings. Some housed people. Some hid monsters. But it was hard to focus and soon I would forget.
It was possible to sleep, but considering the 'bed.' the experience was hardly restorative. The surface had no 'give,' and my bones hurt.
I am a microbe... a sub-atomic particle, on a huge ball bearing rolling nowhere.
But once, it was different. I drank iced tea and saw moonbeams. I said things and people answered. I read books and brushed my teeth.
Yet the universe plays tricks. Tiny pin pricks of rare singularities exist there. Sometimes they hit things and gobble them up. I was such a meal.
Once I was 'there,' and now I am'here.' I suppose tiny germ-things wriggle on my skin. But I can't see them. I lay on my stomach and taste the ground. But my tongue is dry. I sense nothing. Even my nails fail to grow.
Dreams? I do not have them.
Perhaps I'll go blind and lose the horizon too?
* * * * * * * *
1 comment:
Cool, Brother! We're honored :-D
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