He was dreaming again. Within his pedestrian fantasy, the sky wore coffee-stained, ancient colors above an endless stretch of water that sat calmly without disturbance. A few clouds brushed the decay of the sky—how fragile they were, as though they would dissolve in shame if kept under harsh scrutiny. Motherless light descended onto the clear surface, reflecting the same continuum of the sky, but it was not quite the same. The mirroring impression the water offered was unreal, a figment born as an apparition, a mental coquette, but never existent in the reality of the dream—untouchable even in reach. No matter how many times he blinked, the sepia luster branded his retina with cloudland, and when he closed his eyes, he was brought to the surface of an inferno, the back of his eyelids fashioned as red organic chambers, reminding him he was conscious here.
The first step was always foreign, an illusory limb he felt as a part of him, yet the somatic sensation was not enough to convince him that it was truly his own. He walked toward the direction presented the moment he first opened his eyes. A glance around would tell him there was nowhere in particular to go within the edgeless space of absent deviance. He felt that no matter what direction he chose, he would end up in the same location within a rupture of time and space, caught in a vacancy of the subliminal chaos. He would be either suspended or left in free fall, perhaps become oblivious to the reality of such occurrences, much like every dream that rose from the consequence of his avoidance of sleep. But how do the dreams usually end? If he remembered, it might be quicker to escape the desolation of his soul and stop the madness from returning every time he bathed in the river of dreams.
Fatigue rendered him unable to pay attention to his pace and the number of his steps. The horizon shifted upon the spectacle of a misplaced door consuming a small patch of the sky and resting on the boundary above the pretentious water. He approached the rather ornate door without caution—what an artless predilection for neglect he appeared to possess at the moment. After all, he would wake up unaffected and forgetful of whatever transpired, and this was enough reason for him to act impulsively when the only distinct effect is the lingering dread of abandonment circulating his system in the aftermath.
Possessing not a wall or any means of support, the door floated seemingly out of purpose, abandoned to confuse the visitors of this world. The small sculptures on the lintel possessed war angels carrying spears and swords. Whilst their alabaster gaze found their blissful daemonic counterparts on the jambs, they seem lost in their accusations of those damned, and awkward in their artificial stations. Some were bent over as though in punishment; others suggested they were running away by the way they turned their bodies away from the angle of the edges. The daemons were tempted in eternal laughter, pointing, and holding not dust in their hands except their fictional black hearts. It was as if they could free themselves from the surface, be able to fly away or turn the angels into white dust, and they certainly could if they wanted.
He wondered if this door represented what he thought of the worlds, the angels, and the daemons. The contemplations of eager demise did not astound him as it would to the critical people of Aurae. It would not so much astound them, but they would find him blatantly ridiculous with a tongue patched with buncombe. As no doorknob existed, he pressed his fingers against the stubborn surface, and his fingertips throbbed in surprise of the sudden shift from the perpetual air that carried them earlier. The door opened slowly even at the slightest push, only to reveal the abyss beckoning him into its lonely womb. An immediate, distant echo melted into the darkness, unintelligible at first, but the fetal sound grew stronger, until he heard what it said as though the creature speaking the words was drawing closer. But nothing appeared.
“Come with me and take me home,” said the abyss before pulling him into the door. He slowly lost his sensation and freedom, and finally, as if his skin was teasing him from the sudden hypoesthesia, he felt he descended from the skies and into nightfall.
Unlike his other dreams, he remembered most of the details of this dream upon waking. It confused him at first, but he thought about whether being on Earth had to do with the exceptional ability to secure the memory of his dreams stringently. Or it might just be a momentary gift from Death before he goes to receive its osseous kiss. His dream could be the response to the piercing feeling he had upon entry to this world, something primal and predatory that buried itself immediately into his soul when it found him.
The wall of cement supported his feeble body, the result from a tragic, short fall onto a soft bed of mud and grass near an abandoned building. He managed to crawl into the dusty greeting of what appeared to be a factory with oxidized machinery and broken conveyor belts dedicated to the production of an unknown human artifact. For a few days, he attempted to recover his strength after the punitive burden the travel between worlds had on his body. But he decided it was time to find the child before he prematurely dies from a different disease other than suicide. Standing did not take as much effort as he expected, but the walking was disheartening. A step was closer to a stumble, unsteady and uncertain, worse than the limbs in his dreams, which he could at least move in volition. Slowly, he walked toward exposure—until the open world cradled him.
The night sky was quite a marvel to witness for a fourth time since he descended from Aurae. He once imagined the colorless sky of Aurae to be inked with soot upon reading what the night sky appeared like in the stolen books from Earth, but his imagination can only shiver underneath the expanse of this universe, the raw and unforgiving climate haunting his skin in transcendent memento.
Sprinkles of red, blue, and white orbs of light floated in the distance from where he stood. He decided to begin there, hoping that his primordial substance would draw him close to where the child existed. Perhaps that was what the feeling was, the allure from a child torn by heaven and inferno, or it may be something else that was monstrous and out for blood.
The first step was always foreign, an illusory limb he felt as a part of him, yet the somatic sensation was not enough to convince him that it was truly his own. He walked toward the direction presented the moment he first opened his eyes. A glance around would tell him there was nowhere in particular to go within the edgeless space of absent deviance. He felt that no matter what direction he chose, he would end up in the same location within a rupture of time and space, caught in a vacancy of the subliminal chaos. He would be either suspended or left in free fall, perhaps become oblivious to the reality of such occurrences, much like every dream that rose from the consequence of his avoidance of sleep. But how do the dreams usually end? If he remembered, it might be quicker to escape the desolation of his soul and stop the madness from returning every time he bathed in the river of dreams.
Fatigue rendered him unable to pay attention to his pace and the number of his steps. The horizon shifted upon the spectacle of a misplaced door consuming a small patch of the sky and resting on the boundary above the pretentious water. He approached the rather ornate door without caution—what an artless predilection for neglect he appeared to possess at the moment. After all, he would wake up unaffected and forgetful of whatever transpired, and this was enough reason for him to act impulsively when the only distinct effect is the lingering dread of abandonment circulating his system in the aftermath.
Possessing not a wall or any means of support, the door floated seemingly out of purpose, abandoned to confuse the visitors of this world. The small sculptures on the lintel possessed war angels carrying spears and swords. Whilst their alabaster gaze found their blissful daemonic counterparts on the jambs, they seem lost in their accusations of those damned, and awkward in their artificial stations. Some were bent over as though in punishment; others suggested they were running away by the way they turned their bodies away from the angle of the edges. The daemons were tempted in eternal laughter, pointing, and holding not dust in their hands except their fictional black hearts. It was as if they could free themselves from the surface, be able to fly away or turn the angels into white dust, and they certainly could if they wanted.
He wondered if this door represented what he thought of the worlds, the angels, and the daemons. The contemplations of eager demise did not astound him as it would to the critical people of Aurae. It would not so much astound them, but they would find him blatantly ridiculous with a tongue patched with buncombe. As no doorknob existed, he pressed his fingers against the stubborn surface, and his fingertips throbbed in surprise of the sudden shift from the perpetual air that carried them earlier. The door opened slowly even at the slightest push, only to reveal the abyss beckoning him into its lonely womb. An immediate, distant echo melted into the darkness, unintelligible at first, but the fetal sound grew stronger, until he heard what it said as though the creature speaking the words was drawing closer. But nothing appeared.
“Come with me and take me home,” said the abyss before pulling him into the door. He slowly lost his sensation and freedom, and finally, as if his skin was teasing him from the sudden hypoesthesia, he felt he descended from the skies and into nightfall.
Unlike his other dreams, he remembered most of the details of this dream upon waking. It confused him at first, but he thought about whether being on Earth had to do with the exceptional ability to secure the memory of his dreams stringently. Or it might just be a momentary gift from Death before he goes to receive its osseous kiss. His dream could be the response to the piercing feeling he had upon entry to this world, something primal and predatory that buried itself immediately into his soul when it found him.
The wall of cement supported his feeble body, the result from a tragic, short fall onto a soft bed of mud and grass near an abandoned building. He managed to crawl into the dusty greeting of what appeared to be a factory with oxidized machinery and broken conveyor belts dedicated to the production of an unknown human artifact. For a few days, he attempted to recover his strength after the punitive burden the travel between worlds had on his body. But he decided it was time to find the child before he prematurely dies from a different disease other than suicide. Standing did not take as much effort as he expected, but the walking was disheartening. A step was closer to a stumble, unsteady and uncertain, worse than the limbs in his dreams, which he could at least move in volition. Slowly, he walked toward exposure—until the open world cradled him.
The night sky was quite a marvel to witness for a fourth time since he descended from Aurae. He once imagined the colorless sky of Aurae to be inked with soot upon reading what the night sky appeared like in the stolen books from Earth, but his imagination can only shiver underneath the expanse of this universe, the raw and unforgiving climate haunting his skin in transcendent memento.
Sprinkles of red, blue, and white orbs of light floated in the distance from where he stood. He decided to begin there, hoping that his primordial substance would draw him close to where the child existed. Perhaps that was what the feeling was, the allure from a child torn by heaven and inferno, or it may be something else that was monstrous and out for blood.