We were Dreamers once

[Sekot]

They, the countless selves, sing their lament in the distance. Countless voices of would-be angels blind and lost. One question rings out with the force of a thousand fracturing stars: "Who are you?"

Violent violet ocean waves that rise and rise attempting to breach the walls. A towering edifice, an uncollapsible construct dedicated to keeping oneself locked inside. Within his special room he has arrayed the instruments of both his doing and his undoing. Here there are galaxies painted on the walls in the dust of stars and models of planets made of lint. Bowed over a table he scratches lines on a piece of paper. There is a stale scent in the air, of a place well visited but rarely cleaned. Little air circulates between the stone or through the window.

He tinkers, plucking away at countless strings arranged throughout the room. When one sings, they all sing but their echo is soon swallowed by the stiffness. It is just enough to keep the noise from outside from penetrating his thoughts, to keep him moving and contemplating without uncomfortable interruption. Even as the door is knocking, even as those cries grow more shrill, he continues to pluck and tinker. To scratch and draw out symbols of no meaning.

Storms are gathering, enchanted and violent. Sounds of war echo outside the walls, broken ghost ships roam as sea vultures. Tattered sails and sparse skeleton crews. Lightning arcs across the sky, silent. Unaccompanied. Harbingers. The light within his room flickers. The candles blow in invisible breezes. He is aware of the change of tone, of the escalating sounds of panic. He grows quiet, hesitating to pluck the string.

He is there, across the room. Silently he screams, clutching at his head and pulling at his hair. A being of shadow, hidden between the bookcases. He devours what little light comes his way, greedily sucks it in and hungers for more. Feeble, shaking hands reach outward, belying the true strength in those bones. Flashes of anger of hatred and abject terror cross his face. The first refuses to look upon it, refuses to acknowledge the mirror.

He plucks the string, but the sound is muffled. One by one each candle is snuffed out. Lightning flickers, and soon that is his only source of light. Nothing to separate him from the beast who can now wander freely. Tools of his doing and his undoing lie within the unbreakable chamber. Walls meant to keep him in.

The monster places a hand on his shoulder and leans in close to whisper. It knows. Shaking hands grasp for the strings, plucking several. The sound is erratic, it competes with one another until they lay themselves to rest. The monster laughs in his ear.

[Sekot]

The shadow blazed on the soft jade grass. Legs tucked close to its chest, head turned upward toward the distant sky, it gave off a peculiar intensity. A deep seated hungering held back by a string. I looked at it and became enamored with its intricate beauty. In the depths of its empty flesh swirled memories and stories both true and false. I wanted to reach out and touch it, to feel the cold in between my fingers like water running through a snowy valley. Slowly their head turned and looked upon me, and I felt exposed. It saw me and everything that I was and will ever be. It only fed the flames of my desire.

"Did they not tell you never to play with fire?" It asked with a voice that shook me.

I smiled and diverted my attention like a child in love. "Of course they did. But sometimes the risk is worth it."

It turned its head away. "What do you think is up there?"

I followed his gaze upward. I traced the imaginary lines between the stars and created images and idols. "Whatever you can imagine?"

"Is that it?"

"Is it not enough?"

It smoldered in a range of blues and purples. The grass beneath it lay as if untouched. No charred remains, no smell of charcoal. Was it a figment of my imagination?

"I could answer that question for you."

Their words penetrated through the thick haze that had swelled up into my head. Thoughts broke open and once more I was exposed. "Who are you?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

It did not respond. At least, not to that question. "What do you think of them?" it asked as it waved its hand toward the horizon.

I looked outward where sky met land. An ocean of fields, a never ending expanse. Somewhere out there, beyond their collected gaze were cities of impossible largeness. And within those cities were even more complex social beings working in intricate layers to just go about their daily lives. Smiles and laughter mixed with frowns and sorrow. A violent mess of absurdity and ordinary. "I do not know," was all I could say.

Pleased with the answer the shadow fell quiet.

[Sekot]

And above the mountain tops he rose. A titan. He sat atop the land, the fog rolling about him in a comforting blanket. From miles and miles away we watched him as he seemed unaware of his mere insects. For many long and quiet years he sat there, and we wondered truly if he was alive. No one was brave enough to traverse the open expanse of plain to find out. Though every once in a while, a great sigh would escape and come rushing toward the tiny village. A great horn blast that shook their meager homes.

At night, it looked like any other mountain, but so many stars it blocked from view. At dawn the sun would rise behind him and cast a glowing halo about his curly head. But never once did he move. We feared that if he did, the world itself would crack asunder underneath the force of his action.

Priests consecrated him and named him god. The lowest peasant named him mountain lord. Learned men named him Titan. We lived in fear and awe of the creation. We laid in wait as one does for a violent volcano. But there was more to it, something more sinister and terrifying: the implied sentience of it all. The knowledge that he was us but on a grander scale was what haunted our nightmares.

I tell you this because tonight, he turned his head. He gazed over that expanse that we feared and stared straight into our village. Eyes that glowed like their own suns.

[Sekot]

What is life asked the miscreant philosopher and as we contemplated our realities someone laughed and we were brought back to our present and we wondered what kind of crack we were smoking. Fuck this we got better things to do.

[Sekot]

I listen to the worst music and you know what I give no shits. none zero zip

because we were dreamers once captivated by the thoughts of a silent age of thought and we quickly grew bored realizing the fantastic color of the false reality. There was only one real direction to head toward and that was the end of the tunnel where that bright light never stopped shining.

And what we found made us never want to dream again for we had found ourselves living that dream.

[Sekot]

More than anything in this world, I wish to know how it all works. And maybe, in so doing, I'll have sufficiently protected myself from the abstract nightmares that constantly hover around the edges of my consciousness.

As the darkest hour opens, the demon clatters and claps its massive jaws. It jitters with pleasure, it jitters with anticipation. Deep below the denizens of hell are clapping in excitement. It jeers at the walls constructed of mental stone. It points and laughs, knowing full well that those physical barriers will never stop it.

And deep below they are laughing. He can hear it from his lofty perch overlooking the vastness of nothing in particular. He can feel their countless tiny hands climbing up his legs and pulling at his clothing, threatening to take him with them. Clouds have gathered, accumulated in the dead silence and spread like wildfire across the sky. They broil, very much alive, roll and churn as they chew on their anger. Sapped of warmth, he pulls his coat tighter across his body.

And from behind him come the whispers, the sneering jeering listeners that constantly beckon at him from the shadows. A very specific hand finds its place on his shoulder, an iron grip announcing its presence. A chill descends, his breath rolls out of his mouth like the clouds above. The color drains and the verdant world suddenly appears so very grey. Questions race through the whispering chatters, rumors are spread and stories are spun that continue to echo down the hall of mirrors.

The presence grows behind him, a massive hungering being that swallows all things. It looms about him, wrapping around the edges of his vision. The whispers quiet, silenced by the growing apparition. Faces dance before him, fading out into the wilderness. Scarred and torn, they are forced into grimaces and contort themselves easily into mockeries of smiles. The demon stands far below, looking upward with black eyes and empty soul. It offers a scaled hand.

What is it you want?

The words sear themselves across his skin, erupting into blisters and charred flesh. The answer is easy and is offered as sacrifice. And there, upon the altar, it is slaughtered.

It is not what you want but why you did not get it.

Do you see this castle you have constructed? Do you see the demon below?

The image fades. Replaced with nothing but a solitary mirror. The clouds above accompany the arrival with a magnificent clap of thunder.

Is it truly better if I do not know?

All of it fades except for the presence. It vibrates the air around it to produce a distant hum like a weeping mother. Slowly the available air is siphoned away. All that remains is the sight of a grey plain. No touch to separate himself from the ground. As the cracks begin to appear, he takes in one last breath. Some plea to victimhood, some plea to god, a lie and a falsehood projected ontoward.

He allows the presence to envelope him, to embrace him in its comforting way, and to swallow him as all things would eventually go. Peace. Silence.

Constant questions, clamorings. "What did I do so wrong?" And the answer I return to is: nothing. Maybe I'm just insane.

[Sekot]

And its times like these I find comfort in the soft voice of Beyonce.

Rumbling bass lines and quiet little anthems. Reminding me of the fire that encapsulates my soul, that is my soul. I will know this world and I will know the next. Never stopping never ceasing I will not be beaten I will never hide behind these walls. Though the demon-self beckons I will forever continue the dance we both share only to taunt it into submission as I refuse to bow.

In the darkest night I will be my own light. I will devour myself to consume my fears and abstract hate.

what do you get the boy that wants the world?

[Sekot]

Life is absurd. This is the mantra I have clung to. Anything less and I must concede defeat. I have decided to face it head on and live only to enjoy what I want, to enjoy who I am. I am a neurotic basket case. I am hilarious and a clown. I am proud, I am arrogant. And I am plagued with my own demons, the countless mirrors that line my mental halls. Within each I can see only a part of me, a hopelessly contorted and exaggerated expression staring back. In each of their eyes is the same raging fire that dwells in mine. In them I see my own desire in its many facets.

In the darkest night hour I search through the crowd. You're face is all that I see, I'll give you everything. Baby love me lights out.

And the tragedy of this particular situation is how I ask myself "What did I do wrong?". What does it mean to do wrong and what does it mean to do right? That maybe, if things had gone as I had planned, I would have what I wanted. And all I see is the room of mirrors that stretches into oblivion and I find myself staring at one in particular. I am sitting on a golden throne wrapped in flames. In my hands rests a shattered crown. I am sneering and furious. Underneath my throne is a mountain of skulls. Blood spatters my robes and is smeared across my face.

If it had gone right, if I had not spoken a word out of place, then surely I would have what I want. As if it were an inevitability. How could anyone not want me as I want them? The complexity of desire still mystifies me, but it is another facet of my want that has ruined me. In all of my arrogance, I have set myself ablaze. Because, truly, could he have just not been interested? Must the problem rest with me? Is there a problem at all?

This path is familiar, though covered in twisted and mangled vines poisoned with my own hate. All the same, all identical to paths I have crossed before. And yet, strangely, it is unknown. For all my rebelliousness I certainly hate an untrodden path. Why must I know what lies that way? Why must I have it all mapped out?

Another mirror stands before me and in it is a picture I have seared into my mind. A crouched figure, pale and emaciated. In its eyes burns countless fires, unimaginable fires, in them I witness the End. I often find myself meditating here, taking in the stench of rot and bile. It accuses me with countless fingers. Ripples cross over it as its skin is stripped bare to reveal ebony bone only to regrow completely. Caught in a landscape of broken earth and fiery volcanoes. And the more I meditate, the more it appears less crippled and more able. It becomes, before my eyes, a god. A beast capable of crossing the barrier and possessing me.

Heart beats pass. And I can only just barely turn away.

[Sekot]

And so the fates have chosen. We are the kings sitting upon gilded thrones, dripping in the blood of our conquered foes. Beneath us lie the piles of empty skulls blackened in sacrificial pyres. We are the monster dreamers, the nightmare creatures lost in the depths of memories. We are lords and judges, beasts and witches.

And our heart has grown heavy with a deep chill. We have taken the crowns of our enemies and shattered them upon our heads. Wrapped in thorns, we few chosen images cast long shadows.

Bristling, our jaws hang open. Slavering, we are mindless hounds.

Roll with the punches roll with the beats and let it all go.

[Sekot]

And when it arrived we were ill prepared. Silence. It dwelled upon us. Sat like a grumpy old man over us. With each one of his breaths another one of us died. We lie, trembling, clutching at what little does cover us underneath the weight of it all. The ceiling of the world rides low, as if the gods are pushing it close to get a better view or their malaised test subjects. We knew nothing about ourselves, why this had all come to pass. All we did know was that we had failed. Maybe, at some point yet to come, we will still exist as statues. Frozen in place, may we forever guard the path so that others know not to come near.

As we sit upon our frozen thrones, may we act as deathly harbingers. We unlucky few caught within a tirade of pride and anger. As the ceiling touches the world and we collapse, may the rebirth never trespass against our knowledge.

[Sekot]

They were released from their carapaces that dangled from the icy ceiling. Slowly the cracks formed and split the thick chitin. Juices dripped in great droplets from the opening, glimmering like spilled oil in the light of the refracted moon. Multi-jointed legs protruded from the openings to spread the gaps even further. Slow and cumbersome, more liquid seeped out of the freshly opened wounds. And out they came, elegant and proud.

They wore chitinous robes of mauve and cerulean. Covered in a sheen of the protein-rich fluid, they too glimmered and glistened not only within the moonlight but also from their own bioluminescence. They were neon lampposts that cast odd shadows against the wall, that caught their previous wombs as now broken tombs. Upon multiple legs they walked, awkwardly stilted. Their tetratic wings fluttered free to dry themselves.

From their multitudinous eyes they gazed upon one another. Their mandibles clicked in just audible noise.

[Sekot]

Once more he found himself talking to god. Confused, but for once not afraid, he lay at his feet all that he had to bare. Something about this world, he considered, had changed him. Rather, there was something about this world that he did not understand. He brushed his hands through the thick grass at his feet, felt the cool breeze that washed through him like running water. To cleanse his soul, he laid it out to dry.

And god was there, walking through the tomb-like trees. They saw each other, laid eyes upon one another, and he knew him. One rose from the grass, felt his knees pop. The other beckoned him forward into the overshadowed forest. A storm had gathered that threatened rain, but held off instead far above in quiet anticipation. "Come with me, out of the shadow of the clouds, where we can talk."

He smiled at him and they both shared words. They talked of imaginations and futures, of wants and wishes.

* * * * *

The mounting terror swelled in him. His hands twitched on the keys. He sat staring into space, delving deep to pull forth something worth offering, to speak of his damning. But amongst the pile of discarded lovers were tales of liars and he grew too old. Quiet horrors lurked in the background, dancing macabre. Diseased little creatures swam out of some little hole, forgotten and alone they clattered amongst each other at his feet. Fingers twitched.

They merely spoke of weird things, of odd times. Maybe he could repent, again. Maybe he would be believed, for once. Or truly he could continue ambling forward on some mystical journey that had no end. His fingers tapped on the wood of the table. One by one they lifted and fell, rapping loudly. Hearts were racing. Angry. They avowed vengeance but faced with surmounting troubles they turned into themselves and became too scared. Manipulated and dejected they too faded into the dark.

The eternal questions sang in the heavens while he refused their answers. Too much for him he could only wander, wonder, and wait. Time was always a strange beast of far too many complications. The storm was beating on his door asking for allowance. To say he hated himself was wrong, for himself was absent. What he hated was the particular circumstance. The lack of pomp.

And even as the table burst into flames around him, he was content to merely listen to the crackling fire. Rage melted away leaving only that bizarre state of confusion, a sense of betweeness and lack of belonging like an angsty teen. Swirling images played out amongst the dancing licks of scarlet and maize. His fingers rapped on the table. He refused to move. There was that lie. That special cruelty reserved for him at the end of the tunnel. Maybe one day he'd find it.

[Sekot]

We were dreamers once and proud. And today the dreams came true. Captured in the light of the mystified dawn, they gleamed and glistened incandescent purples and blues. Royal crowns of dew adorned their heads as they rose from the salted earth. Flowing magenta velvet capes billowed around them like angry clouds. They clasped hands together, grasped each others arms and pulled one another close. Their combined gravity shook the earth and collapsed it.

Tumbling, they did not cry aloud. Instead they peered into the others eyes and watched each others soul disappear amongst the storm of stars. Stifled, they smiled. Electric energy pulsed between their fingertips, between their nostrils and ears. Rippling tides of power coursed through their multitudinous veins. Heartbeats separated life from lies and together they drowned in ecstatic nightmare fluid.

Amongst towering carapaces, they raced on uneven ground. With each step of the foot there grew an array of weeds that were meant to ensnare them. But they were too quick and the plants too slow. They continued their gallop unabated, narrowly escaping the threats that clustered behind them. As the moon hung close, watching, they sped to their doom. The cliff face loomed. The shore came rushing forward and climbed upward. Swirling soaring birds clattered and chattered. They beat their wings furiously, running upward away from the swell.

We held hands underneath that starry sky that clung to the world around us as so many mosquitoes. The moons danced against one another, pulling forever in eternal quarrel. We held hands, brushed fingertips, and felt our pulse quicken. Even as our blood dripped into rivers that became seas of viscous humor. The drums beat and we declined their advance. They beckoned to us to arise but we did not. We refused. We lay amongst the dewed grass with their crowns of purple dew. Even as the gravity of our situation caused our world to collapse.

[Sekot]

The fortress gleamed as if it were a metropolis. Upon a precipice it overlooked a valley of darkness. Ringing its many crowned towers were necklaces of glowing stones. And with each glistening image appeared the face of a man. Weathered and beaten they remained stoic against the rough winds that blew from across the frozen sea. Higher than any mountain top it itself pierced the stars. Perpetual celestial rain pattered against the wooden roofs and slid into waiting troughs. Collected and sold as gentlemen's perfume, its lowly drew them all insane.

Incandescent drops sliding between the etchings of the wood, the wear lines and tear lines of ancient use. It slid slowly, taking its time and relishing in the feel of the balmy air. Light caught the gentle curves and was scattered into a thousand arrays of variable color. A hand brushed against a cheek and felt the soft hairs growing. A gentle caress of the brow to wipe away sweat. A kiss placed lovingly on the crown before rising. Hands joined before the coming storm.

[Sekot]

It came into view, glistening across the side. Gleaming in the light of the distant star, it was a brick. From the smooth siding swarmed countless dots that glowed blue and green. Shaped in the way of a knife, it sliced through space by means of propulsion with six blue-white thrusters. It hummed silently within the many halls of the several miles long vessel. A fortress made for traveling between the stars.

And he gazed upon it from within the capsule of his small ship. Gazed upon the majesty of the particular terror it hid within its many sheathes. Not only a double-bladed, but multi-bladed sword. The asteroid chain it found itself swimming through meagerly ignored its mighty length, instead spinning lifelessly around it. Moved individually through manipulated gravity wells, the Harbinger sang a silent song as it was surrounded by death.

The hull gleamed in purples and blues from the backdrop of the gas giant behind it. Swirling clouds churned hungrily through the liquid atmosphere, seeking desperately to become the star it always wanted to be but failing. The Harbinger clawed against it, tearing forward past the gravity that threatened to swallow it. Freedom lay at the other end of the rings. Freedom lay at the end of space.

And there it was, as it cleared the rim, a force that would test its mettle. They littered the skies like so many flies, spectral forces that shimmered and gleamed in self-produced light. Melded amongst the stars they were nearly invisible if not for the swarm of sensors adorning the surface of the fiery spear. In the silence of the space between them they squared off, staring at one another through the glass of their bridges. The commanders' fingers twitched, their mouths went dry as their flight-or-fight responses were triggered. One ship against thousands. Mirages and mirrors, smoke and parlor tricks.

The Harbinger was the first to respond. A salvo was released into the bleakness of space. Super-heated metallic particles were fired from magnetic weaponry at the rate of thousands of miles per hour. They screamed through the darkness in colors unmatchable on the surface of planets. Many missed, few hit only to bounce away as near misses. One or two connected in flowery explosions as they tore through hulls and people alike as if they were wet paper.

From the Harbinger spilled a countless dots. Like bile they flowed from the gaping maws that had appeared on the once pristine surface. Countless dots filled the stars, filled the space between. Lights flared as engines were engaged from frigate and fighter alike. Another salvo was released, the incandescent light of the laser. Blue reds and pale whites clashed amongst themselves as blossoms erupted.