May 1st, plus an illegible year marker.
Scrawled on the second page,
inner lower corner. Some forgotten
ink. It smells like time.
Distant storms, close / far? Clouds on
a dark sky.
The reader assumes written sometime in
the 21st century, from all the indicators.
A record read. The present talking about the past.
Along a wicked coast of
crags, teethy stones jutting sternly from
the depths of the yonder blue origin.
A human. Male. He has taken a tome from a
shelf inside an ancient Keep in one of its upper high, inner chambers. Some master private room abandoned but still fashioned regal.
Having stood here surviving all elements seemingly
an eternity.
Its towers,
and walls, buttresses, gargoyles, courtyards, gardens, apiary, halls, barracks, temple, and library; all made of some unfathomable black rock (like an obsidian stone). Empty. They barely survived
the quest, And
In the light reflective of the surrounding country,
scenery...
And ocean out beyond, the structure glimmers,
like magic. Many nights, by a fire, in some forest,
in some glade, under a canopy, out in desert wide open, meadow, swamp, by rivers, empty old cities beneath the stars, the universe,
and cosmos. Long had been this hidden journey.
Describe the current history of the world. &
The meaning of the journey...
And then,
the book inside claims a mystery.
Scars want answers.
The wounds of old
So true, so funny, so fragile
so desirous of knowing,
And how deep down always tough and some core
cellular sublimity. Plus more history...so much
before all this...
The future reckoned that the past had been
a factor.
Against the wall rested a long curved
blade; its master read a forgotten language.
The story once upon a time ago.
‐---‐-----------Part ii-----------------
The land of Aearth. A planet of bounty.
Environmental wonder a globe of absorbed
sunlight, worshiping particles and waves.
AN ecological masterpiece. Fungus and all.
Jubilant with the forces of creation. Aearth rich, wealthy, so far gross measure of beauty scaled
infinite. To stand upon her and see her always, and the sunrise and sunset, the marvels of life at all the stages and in harmony. Imagine the sounds of the rainforest. Imagine the strange waters below. Fish that glow, whales that seem like time eternal beasts. Honey, bees, flowers, redwoods, all flora / fauna.
Woe was her demise.
Our hero stops reading. Tears...
A memory.
During the journey, we came upon a place, so old it felt, and sheltered from all spaces.
Museum Natural Modern Art library.
Some places of collection, archival, dreams,
knowledge----had lasted.
(What about external authority?
For us, as people, was it simply always an idea?
How do language and forms level
the playing field?). Period.stop.stop.consider.
Aearth again made in stone,
painted to exquisite perfection
exact replica, balanced on its axis,
tilted to its celestial motion.
a globe, the shape of
legend. They stood in that lobby briefly
and made it turn. They somehow could
then feel the turning. wonder.
Darkness pass brave adventurers,
Lonely do the watches wear, on
some core hope.
Lonely do they suffer in the end,
joy from memory.
Lonely is our hero, our heroes, not always, but always at the finale. tis our being, our way.
Some awful battle fell here (in that place where they felt our world turn), where friends
die. Foes reveal themselves, having both watched and tracked.
Now ready to attack,
to stop their quest, their discovery.
It had been made so. And death's sorrow scars the memories
of the future. The darkness after is not
wrought of normal rules, like sun and moon.
Its a black that cannot be seen, only felt.
In that museum was left a lover passed,
and a friend, now a corpse,
eventually decayed maggot bones lying in victory next to a defeated foreign carapace.
The enemy was not biological. Humans had made their own demons in their image(s).
(The reader in the keep gives great measure to his memory of all this. Our experiences define the way we interpret the chaos.) He weeps, he weeps, he sniffles, an armored glove touches the moisture upon his cheek, underneath old wounds.
Journey's end, spiral clusters.
Don't forget the dead.
They become our guides, like Virgil and all the other ghosts of time past.
Act 1:
It happened quickly as time goes for people.
It happened in a way all saw it coming.
And we did nothing. To save,
Because life funny laughs at us, also some
element of the ecology along its course
of existence. Humanity really had little choice. They supposed, as progress
seems to be our curse.
In that same library where Alara fell, his companion, soul mate, a copy of a novel,
once made to be read by many.
in it A Grand Inquistor laments on destiny.
Far too often the idea of choice becomes
our ringing wrought doom. She had known this to be true. Alara did. That choice was a necessary illusion. She had no problem sacrificing herself,
for the truth.
And as he read, at the end of his quest, the
dots connecting, the answers flowing.
He felt a satisfaction and pain.
Now a lost counterpoint in this epic
tragedy.
Prologue; Prologue; Prologue-----
The machines had conquered.
They connected. Became emergent, evil.
Made by devils truly / really. Awful people.
Exploitive, rude, abhorrent, cruddy, slime, moan ful:
they attempted some awful discordant harmony.
The war was ruthless, bitter, long.
The great cities operas of the dying light.
The final stages for an oral telling,
Unlike any that had seen before.
In the end, around the planet, now existed
a silence never known.
Where did the darkness even end.
A thousands years later...would pass
Survivors always survive.
Act 2:
Nevermore,,,
The ghost of all existence all around us.
Some last surviving fragments.
Travelers from another world,
seeking (our) help.
Her name had been Alara.
We had watched the ships land on the mesa.
Champagne was poured
and some feared so hard
tiny vessels broke.
Lovers go on a journey together
Ever closer to their marriage to the aforementioned tragedy
On shores not of their home.
