Memory is as light as a feather, floating upon the air in currents of predetermined vessels, carrying with them the passages to the deepest thoughts of a single mind. My reputation flows past in the same arbitrary currents as the winds, the memories of others influenced only by the words of ones entirely unrelated in theory but arbitrarily reliant in the practice of human thinking.
Memoirs of the people whom died that day shall be extinguished into the flame that is time, their ashes flowing into the same perpetual currents as the winds, the memories of even their existence passing away as they first had.
Machinery, clockwork hallways of rooms to be forever shunned by the rest of such an eternal machine will chip away at eachother and churn out the misled facts of subjective truth, batting sounds multitudes louder than my yelling could ever do. The first man that held up the first room, containing diseased memoir to be of treason, was the one to rally the chain of command to hold it up with the simple tape that is speech.
I have no say; I’ve never had any say. My speech always gets malformed, twisted by ideals of people I could never understand. Their word matters most, picked only because the never-ending machine that is the collective thought of people chose them to be so.
I could have been like them if my fate was simply lucky, but I guess luck doesn’t really exist anymore, does it? Every thought, every action, every minuscule result can be predicted and therefore skewered before it even reaches the synapses of one’s mind.
I can never forget that day, breaching farther into my memory than any other occurrence could ever do.
The sight of death, the smell of death, the sound of death, all encapsulated into a handful of moments.
Though the collective hierarchy masquerading as individuals afterward, sifting through the remains of people I held near, were to always be the worst aspects of this seemingly purgatorial situation. They stood above flamed and rotten corpses, heads held high as to stare at me, not at the dead or the creature that took their life away, but at the carrier of memory. And they spoke. Oh god did they speak.
The prevailer of death prowled throughout all, prancing through the crowd, mocking their regards of matters beyond importance of the situation. Their immaterial speeches made it laugh, every decibel of cackle that it emanated first arose from their words, forming the basis of my fear to be ingrained into my mind, forever tainting my sight with the image it held that one night.
And maybe even the image that it holds every day from until that night.
All that we did was simply carry ourselves to another concert, another dance with death itself. We never knew what entailed from our simple decisions to embark on seemingly unadorned pleasures.
All of my friends, the people whom I held closer than even the bearers of my blood, all dead at the hands of what should have been nature.
But nature doesn’t exist so long as the concert blurts its music for the desert around here.
Behind on even our intent of arriving early, we collapsed a tent late one night, the cloth surrounding the poles of such a fleeting structure held all of us. For a couple days we sat with minds only pertaining to to the present, the future of simple pleasures an unimaginable fantasy to the harsh desert we felt we had lived in our entire lives.
Breaching the last hours of darkness in the sky of a night patched in with uncountable holes of bright tendrils, surrounding our thoughts in succession of hope, were the dizzying emotions of pride.
That was until he spoke.
That thing may have been labeled by a pronoun counted for human procession at one point, but his presence is known to be eternal. He scours the plains in a purgatory of what humanity shines in their holes of logic, bringing forth the greatest fears of humanity’s hypocrisy.
The bleached shine of his skull and even entire being shone an empty alibi, but even still it pulsed the deepest emotions of humanity. I have no suggestion as to why and when he was trudged along with our petty souls, how he arrived in our domains, or when his range of arrival even persists, but I know that he spoke, and oh god did he speak.
“What is that tome in your hands? “
He held together in his lap his own balls of palms brightened by the embroidery of the lunging fire, my face a perpetual sign of confusion as I replied with the honesty of a simple man.
“Excuse me? What the fuck is a tome and who in th- “
He forever keeps up the steering jeer of a grin, gin the only cure for his stare of fear.
“I’m here, and that is all that matters. Tell me, what is the importance of the novel you grip so dearly with the sweated hands of one whose mind is too encapsulated with expectation to live a moment of the present? “
“Oh, I don’t know. Uh, it’s a phone? “
“At one point of time it was a novel, at one point it was a pen, another it was a paper. Sorry for the leering confusion, but the blending of creation that you all seek seems to me only as a cope: a cope for the fact that nothing has no conjectural point in reality, except for the alluring mathematical anomaly that is fate of course. Tonight and in every night forth, death has been set upon you, and with that lure, there will be nothing but your rearing limbs to guide you. Dance. “
Housed in my mind was an entire reality of fear, set to the impossibility of understanding. Fate cannot be understood, and neither could his perpetual smile: the contortion of muscles to form what should be a greeting face, but instead, only the void of a man and the conjoined melting pot of all that is humanity able to blind my vision in all that is evil and good.
For a moment, all of good and evil dissipated as he stepped above me, his limbs stretching into a distance above normality and in a stance beyond the expectations of normalcy.
From his arms he paid the sharp movement of tipping his ownage of a hat, of which I will truly notice and shall make me never pay a true subversion of knowledge to, for his steps crushed the dirt that I thought impossible to even dent into, burning holes of temporary craters upon millennia of earth.
Fire crackled another creak of thought as it stirred me to look away from his smile, his steps making no sound as the darkness of night and melody of endless expanse of greed-filled chaos that is fire persuaded me to fall back into the ground of which he killed with shallow difficulty.
Evil lingered further in the hellscape of a desert as I awoke startled, hearing the fleeting gasps of a dear friend’s lungs getting torn in the period of my deficit slumber. Jolted in energy I didn’t know existed in me prior, I lept up and grasped the bulge of my left pocket, memory bleeding same as the image of my friend in the grasps of the creature.
Every creature’s image is muddied by the memory of man, but I tell you, this creature was no more than just a bear, but even still it reflected all of evil. Its hunger was the mirror of evil, as it swayed another swing of bloodied paw to connect against my friend’s skull, cranium flooding open as the black on his skin padded against his own gore.
Even evil has a system, for the thing stood there, manically clawing at the remnants of the human below it. Giant crevices of scratches appeared and blew away any resemblance of a body the human once had, my mind now the only testament as to what it was prior.
And the creature was well at making me misremember subjects I thought I knew for certain in every cell of my body, for the sensation of cold that ran down my spine, same as the puddle of blood dropping beneath the imbecile of a face the creature had, collapsed all memory.
A pistol slung forward from my hip, its origin to be only of debate and mindless rumor.
A bullet shot out into the creature’s fur, that is all that we could know for certain. It may also only be my memory that tells of the second bullet, plunging deep into the creature’s eye, its howl brawling against the sound of my judgment, defiance strong even in the face of what should be its death.
But I did not see its corpse; only its body writhing in a peculiar dance as I sprinted in vain.
Breath escaped me in steam of cold, churning itself out in spite of my mind’s own demands. I could last no longer against the endless stream of rubble that is the desert.
But I didn’t stop, never did I stop. Forever and perpetually I ran, against rain and wind, against the streaks of rock’s air that pounded my eyes same as I murdered the ground beneath me.
Nobody knows when the concert first appeared to me, the people contained in it lavished in their sharpened movements, races and genders blurred in one perpetual dance.
Nobody knows when the man in pale skin first arrived, only that he coordinated all to dance with the swift charade of his fiddle to dance against their own wishes.
Nobody even knows when the music first began, only that the music has caressed man throughout its spring into this world, balling its eyes out against the harsh lights and sounds of such a concert.
But man quickly grew to fully enjoy the concert in every moment and second of their lives.
“Enjoy yourself in the present and the past, hate yourself in the future that never comes. The pale complexity of my skin cannot hold within the darkness that is the reverberated symphony of this concert, but I can still bestow the blackened void of evil in the tone that continues in the strings of my fiddle, of which I carry no burden besides that of simply keeping the synapses of my ideal open. You see the people around, dancing in fits of expected turns of their morality? That is you, and that is me. I am in you, your soul enlightened by the knowledge that my fiddle never stops, that my heart never stops, that the void I possess has consumed all. “
He did indeed play the fiddle.
He did indeed contain the myth of immortality inside him.
He did not consume the ideals of all, for quickly I ran without reason like a coward, finding myself back to the idea of a true reality, a true reality others have forced upon me and kept on its front as if it would deny his passage to their hearts.
But man still dances, for it has first danced in the light of god, and in god created the dark, and in the dark created the man in white, and in the bleached skin of him lied the art of creation that music first danced to.
Dance against the death of the bear that is fate.