They all leave me, time over time, one or the other; all of them. Living or dead, stuffed in the head or still a breathe left to inhale. I walk these walls down corridors of time, a soulless husk, a movement of flesh without the grace to remain buried. The trails I’ve left behind me, fill in slowly, with the dust that once represented skin and bone and hair and rocks and trees and oceans and stars. Try as I might, the mighty have fallen, as they are absorbed once again by the sea of dust. And still I continue to move forward, always collecting what I must. By reckoning of the angels, who cannot fly any more, I’ve been here for an awfully long time, an age or two, measured by the passage of stars that no longer bear names and have dimmed. Drums of war, pipes of peace, I’ve heard them all; none that remain, except this constant pain of memory, of loss, of dreams in bitter rot, but that’s enough if it’s all you’ve got.
I’d twist in the wind, if the wind had any soul left in its blasts, frigid and forgot, a memory, a sliver of desire. The many sins left behind the men and women slain by chance, by this wicked, wicked dance are stranger than the strange things one thinks of, whilst walking through the days that leave no traces of their own metronome. Rain and mud, dust and derision follow first and finish furiously, the text of this stage play, endless as it goes away.
There is a battle, brewing in my tea cup. I see dragons and monsters and people, waging war against things that they cannot comprehend, let alone see. They are mired by their capacity to be whom they are, and are crippled against that which they can never become. Their enemy lurks not only in their midst, but behind every tree, every outcrop, every living thing within view.
Doomed. No single weapon do they possess, by which blow they could land, has the power to wrest them free of this fate. It echoes down the halls of time, of space, of dust. Together, separate or combined in ways unknown to each other, this fight is against the future, that ominous event which foretells its own demise. Hands and claw and tooth and nail, engaged in conflict against an unknowing rage.
Doomed. In the lands of man, do they combat and confront and seek to defeat their unknown foe. Each moment that they wring from the fragile winds, that they hurl against the dust, against the powers that array both visible and not so much, is wasted like so much rust. All of their efforts, to contain, to control, to commit, to survive, foiled by their own volume of words that lash at the boundaries that men seek to place upon the Universe, unknowing that Reality has its own dictionary.
Doomed. In the lands of Dragon, do they fly, both to the battle and away from it in search of answers. Where crystal halls and mountain kings find fault, find flaw in both the singular destiny of them all. No secrets, except those that they choose to steal away to their hearts, knowing that the rest of life, doesn’t give a fart. Secrets of creation, mirrored by those shadows that corrupt destruction, in the end, both the same side of the coin, a Universe without concept of monetary gain.
Doomed. In the lands of monsters, both great and small, greeting the fate that they did not draw, both one and all. Creatures fair and foul and others such beside. Constantly choosing journeys for themselves and being set upon quests that cannot succeed. Many souls, cast into the aether, failed and foiled and furiously furrowed by designs set in the shadows of stone. Clockwork chaos, reaching into the heart of existence, to twist, to turn, to tap out the sequence of defilement that returns all back to the beginning from whence it began. Back to the dust, featureless and bereft of joy.
In the end, they all have left me. Scattered by the winds, which no longer blow. Settled upon the lands that no longer grow. There is nothing left in this realm, not even a shadow of that which I am, besides this endless dust. I cannot stop, I cannot continue, there is no path, no future before me unclouded. Grey cosmic scattered stuff, is all that remains to coat this planetary surface. If I could but find one soul, one measure of humanity, I might be able to go back and change these things; re-shape the outcome. But, it is all gone. Every soul, every creature, every thing which had the capacity to grow, to shape.
Dust. From whence all life began, returned once again; the bones of weary souls, shepherded back to the shape to which Entropy decrees it must become once anon.
I am weary, yet tire not, can I.
I fight the past, yet return to it I cannot.
I continue on this path, knowing full well, there is nothing left, but dust.
It is time.
From dust was the world born, to the dust has it returned. Again; we shall do it again. Re-kindle the dust to life, to start anew the constant strife. To burn Brightness into the night and scatter stars amongst the frights. To build empires of the living, a sea of take and of giving. Perhaps this time, a word may be spoken, a silence of death fraught with ruin, perhaps can be broken. And perhaps, the cycle will not be the same; perhaps there will be an end to this game. Perhaps that one word, greater than the greatest deed ever performed by creature that drew breathe may be uttered into the void and allowed to take more than just root, to grow and breed past the limits of a finite existence.