When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with. When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured as by a shining brainless beacon, or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world. When you are calm and joyful and finally entirely alone, then in a great new darkness you will finally execute your special plan.
"One needs to have a plan", someone said who was turned away into the shadows and I had beleived to be sleeping or dead.
"Imagine", he said, "all the flesh that is eaten. The teeth tearing into it, the tongue tasting its savor and the hunger that taste. Now take away that flesh", he said, "take away the teeth and the tongue the taste and the hunger. Take away everything as it is. That was my plan, my own special plan for this world."
I listened to these words and yet I did not wonder that this creature I had beleived sleeping or dead would ever approach his vision, even in his deepest dreams or his most lasting death. Because I had heard of such plans, such visions, and I knew they did not see far enough. That what was demanded in the way of a plan needed to go beyond tongue and teeth, taste and hunger, beyond the bones and the very dust of bones and the wind that would come to blow the dust away. And so I began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night, and a strangely shining light that owed nothing to the light of day.
That day may seem like other days. Once more we feel the tiny legged trepedations, once more we are mangled by a great grinding fear, but that day will have no others after. No more worlds like this will follow, because I have a plan. A very special plan. No more worlds like this... no more days like that.
"There are but four ways to die", a sardonic spirit might have said to me.
"There is dying that occurs relatively suddenly, there is dying that occurs relatively gradually, there is dying that occurs relatively painlessly, there is the death that is full of pain. Thus by various means they are combined, the sudden and the gradual, the painless and the painful, to yield but four ways to die... and there are no others."
Even after the voice stopped speaking I listened for it to speak again. After hours and days and years had passed, I listened for some further words. And yet all I heard were the faintest echoes remind me "there are no others... there are no others...". Was it then that I began to concieve for this world a special plan?
There are no means for escaping this world that penetrates even into your sleep, and is its substance. You are caught in your own dreaming where there is no space, and are held forever where there is no time. You can do nothing you are not told to do. There is no hope for escape from this dream, that was never yours. The very words you speak are only its very words, and yout talk like a traitor under its incessant torture.
There are many who have designs upon this world and dream of wild and vast reformations. I have heard them talking in their sleep of elegant mutations and cunning annihliations. I have heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses, and in the alleys and narrow backstreets of this crooked creaking universe. Which they, with their new designs, would make straight and sound. But each of these new and ill concieved designs is deranged in its heart, for they see this world as if it were alone and original... and not as one of only countless others whose nightmares all proceed as a hideous garden grown from a single seed. I have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep, and I stand waiting for them as at the top of a darkened flight of stairs. They know nothing of me, and know none of the secrets of my special plan... while I know every crooked creaking step of theirs.
It was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows, who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner and enter a narrow street, and stand with him in the dull gaze of moonlight. Then he said to me, he whisphered, that my plan was a mistake. That my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake.
"because," he said, "there is nothing to do and there is no where to go, there is nothing to be and no one to know."
"your plan is a mistake", he repeated.
"This world is a mistake", I replied
The children always laughed at him, when they saw him hopping by. A funny walk, a funny man. A funny funny funny man. He made them laugh sometimes, he made them laugh oh yes he did he did he did he did he did. Oh how he made them roll. One day he took them to a place he knew, a special place, and told them things about world... this funny funny funny world, which made them laugh sometimes. He made them laugh, oh yes, he did he did he did he did. Oh how he made them roll. Then the funny man who made them laugh, sometimes he did, revealed to them his special plan his very special funny plan. Knowing they would understand and maybe laugh sometimes. He made them laugh, oh yes he did he did he did he did, their eyes grew wide beneath their lids... and how he made them roll.
I first learned the facts from a lunatic in a dark and quiet room that smelled of stale time/space.
"There are no people, nothing at all like that. The human phenomenon is but the sum of densely coiled layers of illusion each of which winds itself upon the supreme insanity that there are persons of any kind, when all there can be are mindless mirrors laughing and screaming as they parade about in an endless dream."
But when I asked the lunatic what it was that saw itself within these mirrors, he only rocked and smiled, then he laughed and screamed and in his dark and empty eyes I saw for a moment, as if in a mirror, a formless shade of divinity in flight from its stale infinity of time and space, and the worst of all of this worlds dreams. My special plan for the laughter and the screams.
We went to see a little show that was staged in an old shed past the edge of town, and in its beginnings all seemed well. The miniature curtain stage glowed in the darkness while those dulls bounced along on their strings before our eyes. And in its beginnings all seemed well, but then there came a subtle turning point, which some had noticed and I was one... and quietly left the show, though I did not because I could see where things were going. As they antics of those dulls grew strange, and the tiny strings grew taught with the tiny pullings of tiny limbs. I wanted to witness what could never be, I wanted to see what could not be seen... the moment of consumate disaster when puppets turn to face the puppet master.
It was twilight and I stood in the greyish haze of a vast and empty building, when the silence was enriched by a revurberant voice.
"Son, when you grow up, Would you be the savior of the broken the beaten, and the damned?"
He said:
"Will you defeat them your demons and all the non-believers? The plans that they have made? Because one day I'll leave you a phantom to lead you in the summer to join the black parade"
"One needs to have a plan", someone said who was turned away into the shadows and I had beleived to be sleeping or dead.
"Imagine", he said, "all the flesh that is eaten. The teeth tearing into it, the tongue tasting its savor and the hunger that taste. Now take away that flesh", he said, "take away the teeth and the tongue the taste and the hunger. Take away everything as it is. That was my plan, my own special plan for this world."
I listened to these words and yet I did not wonder that this creature I had beleived sleeping or dead would ever approach his vision, even in his deepest dreams or his most lasting death. Because I had heard of such plans, such visions, and I knew they did not see far enough. That what was demanded in the way of a plan needed to go beyond tongue and teeth, taste and hunger, beyond the bones and the very dust of bones and the wind that would come to blow the dust away. And so I began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night, and a strangely shining light that owed nothing to the light of day.
That day may seem like other days. Once more we feel the tiny legged trepedations, once more we are mangled by a great grinding fear, but that day will have no others after. No more worlds like this will follow, because I have a plan. A very special plan. No more worlds like this... no more days like that.
"There are but four ways to die", a sardonic spirit might have said to me.
"There is dying that occurs relatively suddenly, there is dying that occurs relatively gradually, there is dying that occurs relatively painlessly, there is the death that is full of pain. Thus by various means they are combined, the sudden and the gradual, the painless and the painful, to yield but four ways to die... and there are no others."
Even after the voice stopped speaking I listened for it to speak again. After hours and days and years had passed, I listened for some further words. And yet all I heard were the faintest echoes remind me "there are no others... there are no others...". Was it then that I began to concieve for this world a special plan?
There are no means for escaping this world that penetrates even into your sleep, and is its substance. You are caught in your own dreaming where there is no space, and are held forever where there is no time. You can do nothing you are not told to do. There is no hope for escape from this dream, that was never yours. The very words you speak are only its very words, and yout talk like a traitor under its incessant torture.
There are many who have designs upon this world and dream of wild and vast reformations. I have heard them talking in their sleep of elegant mutations and cunning annihliations. I have heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses, and in the alleys and narrow backstreets of this crooked creaking universe. Which they, with their new designs, would make straight and sound. But each of these new and ill concieved designs is deranged in its heart, for they see this world as if it were alone and original... and not as one of only countless others whose nightmares all proceed as a hideous garden grown from a single seed. I have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep, and I stand waiting for them as at the top of a darkened flight of stairs. They know nothing of me, and know none of the secrets of my special plan... while I know every crooked creaking step of theirs.
It was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows, who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner and enter a narrow street, and stand with him in the dull gaze of moonlight. Then he said to me, he whisphered, that my plan was a mistake. That my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake.
"because," he said, "there is nothing to do and there is no where to go, there is nothing to be and no one to know."
"your plan is a mistake", he repeated.
"This world is a mistake", I replied
The children always laughed at him, when they saw him hopping by. A funny walk, a funny man. A funny funny funny man. He made them laugh sometimes, he made them laugh oh yes he did he did he did he did he did. Oh how he made them roll. One day he took them to a place he knew, a special place, and told them things about world... this funny funny funny world, which made them laugh sometimes. He made them laugh, oh yes, he did he did he did he did. Oh how he made them roll. Then the funny man who made them laugh, sometimes he did, revealed to them his special plan his very special funny plan. Knowing they would understand and maybe laugh sometimes. He made them laugh, oh yes he did he did he did he did, their eyes grew wide beneath their lids... and how he made them roll.
I first learned the facts from a lunatic in a dark and quiet room that smelled of stale time/space.
"There are no people, nothing at all like that. The human phenomenon is but the sum of densely coiled layers of illusion each of which winds itself upon the supreme insanity that there are persons of any kind, when all there can be are mindless mirrors laughing and screaming as they parade about in an endless dream."
But when I asked the lunatic what it was that saw itself within these mirrors, he only rocked and smiled, then he laughed and screamed and in his dark and empty eyes I saw for a moment, as if in a mirror, a formless shade of divinity in flight from its stale infinity of time and space, and the worst of all of this worlds dreams. My special plan for the laughter and the screams.
We went to see a little show that was staged in an old shed past the edge of town, and in its beginnings all seemed well. The miniature curtain stage glowed in the darkness while those dulls bounced along on their strings before our eyes. And in its beginnings all seemed well, but then there came a subtle turning point, which some had noticed and I was one... and quietly left the show, though I did not because I could see where things were going. As they antics of those dulls grew strange, and the tiny strings grew taught with the tiny pullings of tiny limbs. I wanted to witness what could never be, I wanted to see what could not be seen... the moment of consumate disaster when puppets turn to face the puppet master.
It was twilight and I stood in the greyish haze of a vast and empty building, when the silence was enriched by a revurberant voice.
"Son, when you grow up, Would you be the savior of the broken the beaten, and the damned?"
He said:
"Will you defeat them your demons and all the non-believers? The plans that they have made? Because one day I'll leave you a phantom to lead you in the summer to join the black parade"
Howdy, Stranger!
It looks like you're new here. If you want to get involved, click one of these buttons!
Comments
I knew it!
What is this from, though