Requiem

Realization

There were two realizations attained to the process of regaining consciousness, as terrible as they could be.

There was no such thing as self, no box to be contained. Neither a body. Only a figure, a mere shape, remained distant, disconnected. A puppet with broken strings. The fog to reach it was deep, dense, easy to get lost in. Yet the monster required no time to wake up in within, and again, its control grew strong, rapidly. The battle was lost before it started.

The second idea was more repulsive. One was alive, escaping death to find greater darkness.

'I thought I had gotten to the darkest place in the world... But then... ahead of me... I saw an even darker blackness.'

After a while, one reached the body, through the fog. The sensation was familiar, the control of an instrument that remained remote, yet obedient. It was in no rush to move, though, not even capable. The eyes remained shut. So, all that had to be be done was wait, patiently wait for time to consume itself. There was a clear will to avoid ideas, memories, being stocked in a similar place where they came from. Buried under lifeless land.

One thought shone, more remarkable than others, apparently. That control must be regained, at any cost, over the monster too. No... one preferred to avoid monsters.

As time passed by, cogitation became clearer, one assumed, as little schemes could be designed. Ideas linked one another in a chaotic, but familiar fashion. One was able to recognize the foundations of that place, the wasteland, that one used to call mind.

However, what one called memories still made no sense, all that was left of that past time was confusion and pandemonium, an ocean of faceless lives, unmemorable places, white noise instead of spoken word. Sentiments... there were some, that for some reason felt linked to smell. The smell of flowers meant misery, the smell of libraries, fear.

Purpose... that died long ago.

The awareness that above all that disorder, the change, the light, and the darkness... there was nothing but stillness.

Alteration was a mirage. Nothing changed, nothing really did. Not anymore.

And in that wasteland, the figure of self stood lifeless.

Awaiting.