Threads: A Tapestry Unbound
Posted: Tue May 24, 2011 1:05 am
In dark dreams of raven's embrace
Lie themselves their craven tongues
What breaks the surface no one sought
But stranger in the light of day
Something calls. It is a primal thing, beyond even words, and yet it is a question.
Faceless voices echo its summons, as though seeking to will themselves into being through their cacophony. But will alone is not its object, as this one knows well enough. Only the crystal chime of a single tone, given resonance in this world between worlds, can wake the sleeper.
For the ones who know regret, left drifting on the winds of fate that blow them carelessly off their paths: these are the ones who are offered this second chance: for chance it is, with one's memories the price one pays for no certain reward. A search for meaning can end with less than they have before; a quest for redemption might leave them steeped even greater in fresh sins... or the lingering shadows of old.
Yet it is a chance they take, for those whose regrets are greater than the sum of their fears: the reckless, perhaps, or the ones who otherwise believe. For what do the dead care for the troubles of the living? They are beyond that world, and nothing they do in this world will carry over to the next. It is altruism of a peculiar quality that drives them, and thus they answer the call, borne again through the eddies which separate one life from the next.
Shaped into being with the essence of life, but without the privilege of reality's acceptance, they are but shadows upon the world of men. Yet as reality revokes them, so can they throw off its shackles and bend its laws to their strength. But such is their only consolation in a world where their very stories should never be told.
And yet are.
andherethethreadliesbrokenlonglivetheliewithaeonsmayitdieforisittheroadlesstakenthatfillsitselfwithidlefantasyimbibingitsichorandthestillofrottingliquor
Cold. Hard.
The words come unbidden to my mind. Try as I might, I find myself unable to understand them. The concepts they express seem foreign: I feel as though I'm watching a scene from a great distance away, and my body is not my own.
Rough. Noisy. Light.
The transition seems gradual, but it's a shock just the same. All of a sudden I'm swamped with sensory information, my mind catching up with my body, metaphorically speaking. Each new adjective that passes through my mind takes its place in the complex jigsaw puzzle, and suddenly they're more than just words.
Reality.
I realize my eyes are closed, and open them almost immediately. My first thought, that the world seems strangely lopsided, is almost immediately supplanted by the realization that I am prone on a road, my face quite literally plastered to its rough surface. Sitting up is now in my lexicon of actions, so I do.
Disorienting is probably the best way to describe the situation. Awake, but not aware. It's a feeling of being... displaced, somehow. As though the patterns of the world was only superimposed upon my senses. Chief among reasons for this displacement, of course, is the sun.
It hangs overhead, so that I can judge it's probably around noon. The large road I'm currently stranded in the middle of is, according to a sign, “Arnold Lane”. As is only to be expected, there are pedestrians walking about, dressed in casual summerwear. Traffic, fortunately, appears to be non-existent on this particular road. A typical summer day, probably late May or early June.
Yet why do I feel no heat?
To say that I feel cold would be wrong, too. The adjective that came to mind wasn't fully able to express what it felt like, but it was the closest thing to an explanation. A... void? It feels almost surreal, as though a part of myself is still lost in the delirium prior to my sensibility.
Which begs a greater question...
I get to my feet, the ground beneath my feet feeling somewhat solid, but definitely wrong, somehow. The people around me don't seem to notice as I slowly walk off the road. Their pointed insouciance to the presence of someone lying in the middle of the road seems strange enough, but when I reach a hand out to tap a passing girl on the shoulder...
The raven's wings unfairly fettered
Finds small succor in lead-to-air
… she turns, only to stare unseeingly past me. Hard as it is to swallow, she can't see me.
Furthermore, the touch seemed to have triggered something. Something in the bag she's holding... and those words...
It's obvious something strange is going on. I try to rack my brains to think of what might possibly cause this. Am I tripping in my own psyche? Are these people merely figments of my imagination? Might be. Could be. It's all just missing one small detail. It's so horrifyingly small, in fact, that I've been able to avoid noticing it all this while.
I don't remember anything.
Enter the nightmare.
Lie themselves their craven tongues
What breaks the surface no one sought
But stranger in the light of day
Something calls. It is a primal thing, beyond even words, and yet it is a question.
Faceless voices echo its summons, as though seeking to will themselves into being through their cacophony. But will alone is not its object, as this one knows well enough. Only the crystal chime of a single tone, given resonance in this world between worlds, can wake the sleeper.
For the ones who know regret, left drifting on the winds of fate that blow them carelessly off their paths: these are the ones who are offered this second chance: for chance it is, with one's memories the price one pays for no certain reward. A search for meaning can end with less than they have before; a quest for redemption might leave them steeped even greater in fresh sins... or the lingering shadows of old.
Yet it is a chance they take, for those whose regrets are greater than the sum of their fears: the reckless, perhaps, or the ones who otherwise believe. For what do the dead care for the troubles of the living? They are beyond that world, and nothing they do in this world will carry over to the next. It is altruism of a peculiar quality that drives them, and thus they answer the call, borne again through the eddies which separate one life from the next.
Shaped into being with the essence of life, but without the privilege of reality's acceptance, they are but shadows upon the world of men. Yet as reality revokes them, so can they throw off its shackles and bend its laws to their strength. But such is their only consolation in a world where their very stories should never be told.
And yet are.
andherethethreadliesbrokenlonglivetheliewithaeonsmayitdieforisittheroadlesstakenthatfillsitselfwithidlefantasyimbibingitsichorandthestillofrottingliquor
Cold. Hard.
The words come unbidden to my mind. Try as I might, I find myself unable to understand them. The concepts they express seem foreign: I feel as though I'm watching a scene from a great distance away, and my body is not my own.
Rough. Noisy. Light.
The transition seems gradual, but it's a shock just the same. All of a sudden I'm swamped with sensory information, my mind catching up with my body, metaphorically speaking. Each new adjective that passes through my mind takes its place in the complex jigsaw puzzle, and suddenly they're more than just words.
Reality.
I realize my eyes are closed, and open them almost immediately. My first thought, that the world seems strangely lopsided, is almost immediately supplanted by the realization that I am prone on a road, my face quite literally plastered to its rough surface. Sitting up is now in my lexicon of actions, so I do.
Disorienting is probably the best way to describe the situation. Awake, but not aware. It's a feeling of being... displaced, somehow. As though the patterns of the world was only superimposed upon my senses. Chief among reasons for this displacement, of course, is the sun.
It hangs overhead, so that I can judge it's probably around noon. The large road I'm currently stranded in the middle of is, according to a sign, “Arnold Lane”. As is only to be expected, there are pedestrians walking about, dressed in casual summerwear. Traffic, fortunately, appears to be non-existent on this particular road. A typical summer day, probably late May or early June.
Yet why do I feel no heat?
To say that I feel cold would be wrong, too. The adjective that came to mind wasn't fully able to express what it felt like, but it was the closest thing to an explanation. A... void? It feels almost surreal, as though a part of myself is still lost in the delirium prior to my sensibility.
Which begs a greater question...
I get to my feet, the ground beneath my feet feeling somewhat solid, but definitely wrong, somehow. The people around me don't seem to notice as I slowly walk off the road. Their pointed insouciance to the presence of someone lying in the middle of the road seems strange enough, but when I reach a hand out to tap a passing girl on the shoulder...
The raven's wings unfairly fettered
Finds small succor in lead-to-air
… she turns, only to stare unseeingly past me. Hard as it is to swallow, she can't see me.
Furthermore, the touch seemed to have triggered something. Something in the bag she's holding... and those words...
It's obvious something strange is going on. I try to rack my brains to think of what might possibly cause this. Am I tripping in my own psyche? Are these people merely figments of my imagination? Might be. Could be. It's all just missing one small detail. It's so horrifyingly small, in fact, that I've been able to avoid noticing it all this while.
I don't remember anything.
Enter the nightmare.