This world — the more of it I see, the more alien it feels. Things, rules I once thought unchangeable: the blues of the sky, the pull of gravity, strangely, for some reason, they don't exactly work right.
Above, displaying in the sky, chromatic fractals of gradient auburn oranges blur through the once-dullen mood. Drifting and shimmering high above, they evoke fleeting illusions—elusive, emotive, and strangely spiritual. Their dynamic rhythm marches to the pace of our travel, following us as if aware of every step that we take. Their radiant brilliance is polished into sharper outline, a striking outcrop set against the ashen, monochromatic plain stretching toward the smoking furnace of slagging ozone. Slowly, from that very horizon, subtle gilded flecks spray forth, red and burning hot. Few at first, but continuous always. Sawing into and sealing the cuts of skyward fissure, briefly melding them into a new damascus plate before setting into rigid form—ephemeral, then increasingly certain. That is my new morning sky.
Under said skyline, out from the end of the canyon ahead and seen through the two stone sides, lies a mountain. This mountain, unaware of our approach, slowly stands up. With heavy motion and aching joints, he basks under the gibbous sunlight.
He is a very lonely being, this mountain—stranded and immobilised in the desolation of solitude. He remains a gleaming edifice, holding the sun between his very fingertips. He strains to catch our gaze with this wanton display of grandeur, as though searching for companionship, for intimacy—yet forever bound within his natural cage. His love remains unrequited. Permanently.
The closer we approach, the more that I see. He stands at a singularity— the point of convergence between three canyons. Surrounded on all sides by walls of speckled stone, he is both guarded and confined within this special place he calls home. From his face spill streams of tearful deltas, unburdened in their sorrowful motion; they weather through stone and sediment alike in crooked relief, percolating outward into the surrounding great plains.
And in this hidden grove, he tends to his secret garden; nurturing life itself: vivid, blossoming and wild creatures of both flora and fauna thrive in ultimate defiance of his unceasing lament. Here, in this cradle of rock, stone, and sunlight, he cultivates beauty as a balm for his eternal promise—to a futile love. Singular. Alone.
You never mentioned that such peace could exist in this world, Jim.
I shift my gaze to look at his former tied-up self ahead.
I won't forget your blatant omission of these critical details in the many, many, many days to come; and burying you here for good too, is this what you ultimately wanted? Your lingering presence souring this moment of blissful respite for the rest of us—ey, all alive and living it up here ruining our moment—you truly were a vicious field weren't you, old friend.
"..."
Well I suppose I can't call you that now can I, but calling you my 'new friend' takes some levity out of the level of bonding we had with each other, man-to-man. What you did for me when I was at my wits end, how can I undervalue what you still mean to me.
"..."
How does this sound, you were my cherished companion.
"!!!"
Too much, then how about partn'r.
"..."
The silence persists.
No disagreements, I can work with that.
A gust of air drags past, sweeping leaves and bits of debris into a slow whirl around us, tangling in the nested shagging hair of the yonks.
"???"
Tim you ask, well I suppose you would want to know wouldn't you. How he's handling it all, your death I mean.
Again I shift my gaze to Tim, who's riding ahead of me on Cindy, setting the pace. Rugged but determined. As if feeling my gaze he turns his head back to meet mine, and lets out a small little grin to himself before turning back away.
Outwardly, he seems fine, well for the most part that is. Although I finally managed to convince him and return to riding on Samuel. It was through much hesitation from both of us on this point. I think he felt just as anxious as I did, with even this tiny level of separation between us, of all but a couple of meters.
"???"
Why did I do it then you ask? Well I just couldn't bear through it all—the guilt. Even I have my current limits. This is supposed to be his returning procession, his moment, of which I can't take that away from him can I?
"!?!"
Mate, you really are as rude when you want to be, asking questions all up in my grill like that. Fine, I suppose I'll answer. Truth is, I keep questioning myself on what I did, all right! Was it justified? Is this step truly the right one to take? I mean hurting a living breathing dog—shocking right—no matter how I think about it now, that was too far. I was volatile and out of reality at the moment of your passing and just… snapped, ok. For that I will take responsibility, however my life was indeed in jeopardy. I'm not going to just pretend that wasn't the case either. I can't always be this perfect person I want to be, like a messiah who is always able to resolve all his conflicts with peaceful alternatives. There will come a time when…
I pause for a moment, beginning to scratch at my back; the rash there blooms an unseen red under my long tattered nails. I twist, awkward and half-limbered, hunting for a spot I can't quite reach. For the twitch it eases in my face—a fleeting, private moment of agitated release is a worthy price to pay. The temporary relief is short-lived; the lingering itch soon returns, restoring my uneasiness even as I collect my thoughts.
In the world where I was originally from, my actions would be considered extreme and unconscionable. What was right back then was seemingly obvious. But now, I'm not so sure anymore. I'm not there anymore, but its influence, it still lingers within me, for better or worse. Am I accountable by the same worldly standards in this life? Does my reincarnation prove there is really a god, one of which I have just renounced. I'm not the smartest tool in the shed am I?
No, it doesn't matter, that being is not worthy of my further mentioning, I suffered too much at their hands. Beg for all my attention boy, you ain't never gonna get it again. You've earned the silent treatment for putting me through that.
"?!?"
Life happened alright. One moment I was instructing villagers how to build a well, the next moment ffft, bag over your head. New places, new people talking in foreign languages not of your own and then. The hunger, the dark. The endless days on end, fighting the rats for their share of the kill.
"???"
No, not the same rats you are familiar with, but even smaller and more pest-like I would say. Like hamsters, do they exist here? Anyways, that's besides the point and I don't feel quite comfortable talking about it alright.
"!!?"
What was the point talking about it then, I was getting to that. As I was saying, it was this 'unelaborated' experience of mine that slowly shifted my priorities and unveiled some of the fundamentals to me, about my reality that I never really knew of, or really wanted to know about. From my own eyes I saw how the weak were kept under foot constantly being dominated; this was the reality even in my so-called moral world, that was a fundamental, but often hidden uncomfortable truth. No one will admit how it's sinful to be weak. Not because you'll supposedly go to hell and be punished for it when you die, but because in life you'll be taken advantage of, and trodden on so hard and so much that it will feel exactly like you were there yourself.
In that sense it's the inevitable outcome of the situation, one in which you get so beat-down and dehumanised you eventually accept the idea of your inferiority. Whether it is an individual or a group, the words and justifications may change in scale but the motive always remains the same. Power. That is what my current ideology is about anyway.
"??!"
No it's not all bad, it just means you have to take responsibility over yourself and your fortitude. Resilience. Sometimes you just have to take the initiative for your own growth, persist forward and forge your own meaning that aligns with your circumstances. This is a climb only you can do for yourself, even if it costs your life.
"!!!"
It is exactly as you say—emotionally cumbersome. You see right through me as the helpless, hypocritical fool I am, don't you? It's as if you're inside my head right now, reading every thought as it takes shape.
Yes, I am a struggling empathetic; one who longs for the comfort of apathy, but lives and breathes anxiety, worrying about things I know I shouldn't be. However, it's so a part of my fragile ego, that if you removed that version of me from the equation, still, nothing will ever add up the same. It's scary, the mindset imprinted on me, I know. Erase it, change it all how I want but without it, I know I would never be quite the same.
So here I stand here. Suffocating. A shining contradiction to my crooked beliefs, unable to change either of these two repulsive things that I define myself by. I'm so immersed in this narcissistic self-image of meaning that even the world will be standing in my self-reflection.
I'm just so fucking pathetic.
I lean forward, my fingers petting the fur and warmth provided beneath me. My back curls as I position my head onto the spine, using it as a pillow for my head. The surrounding wind picks up again, releasing a long, whistling cry as it rushes past. Smells of fresh pollen and humid streams carry the allure of spring alongside the various bugs that come with it; buzzing and biting at the back of my neck.
"..."
What did you expect from me, the me that died before huh. I was different back then. The kind of man who'd give away his last meal—bread, butter and fish to others, eating only the crust myself. There were children there too, where we were held. Out of principle I chose to starve, convinced that dying with honor, with purpose actually meant something real.
Then it happened, the people who begged for my various scraps got themselves killed anyway—wasting all the love and kindness I had left to give.
">:("
It is a true story, I swear it, on your son's life I would never lie about myself to myself.
"!!!"
I know I said I wouldn't elaborate before, but sometimes it's nice to get something off your chest, alright!
"!??"
I'm a walking contradiction, no, life is a walking contradiction and I merely imitate the natural order I see to come to my conclusions. Life is a cruel duality. I've noticed, I've seen it, how it builds you up—gives you beliefs and priorities that seem rightly just and acceptable. Even your own morality is tested; you change it, adapting to new experiences until you're stripped down to your spiritual core. You think you've become a better person, someone who can finally manage their life—and then it strikes you down harder than ever before. Life is an unexpected reality that exposes your true vulnerabilities. Burying you so deep in the garden that even the golden virtue of compassion feels like a crippling debt—every gesture of care becomes a new withdrawal you can no longer afford.
In that degrading cycle, I was nothing more than a small dollar coin, passed from hand to hand, my face value eroding until I was given away for what little worth I had left. Only then did I notice how far I had really fallen.
I became disillusioned. Those I thought would pocket me again vanished. The rest—the broken ones, who were left just like me—still cared for what little I could offer. I was grateful, in giving myself away, too cheap, too terrified of being alone. Until I too was tossed aside and left to roll into the gum-filled abscess of an empty sewer.
I've come to realise that society and culture itself is the closest thing to enlightenment you can get, for it is the thing that we ultimately live in. Unfortunately it runs like some great almighty ATM—assigning value, dispensing validation, and swallowing what's left of your soul when the balance eventually runs dry. A perpetual state of spiritual recession, dragging along the spectacle for those who still believe the legitimacy of the transaction.
It's ironic how the most generous are always the first to become morally bankrupt—giving until their worth dissolves into the very system, the people that defined them.
The takers meanwhile, hoard what they can: saving, profiting, depositing it all into the gaping emptiness of their fractured and leaking vessels. They mistake accumulation for wholeness, power for meaning. Hollow, yet undeniably convicted to the idea of their own personal satiety.
And so this perpetual exchange continues—the givers starving from their kindness, the takers burst from never having enough. Both circulate the same counterfeit of denominated meaning, just enough to keep the beast itself barely alive.
Sorry—I'm rambling my poetry again aren't I. Old habits die hard, and on this specific topic I frequently ponder, well let's just say I have had a lot of idle time in my life to practice alright.
":<"
You make me sound even more depressed than I am. Well they say art is a reflection of self so I guess it's plausible that it's not me that's sad but the world that is.
"???"
You want a takeaway from all this? Well I never really thought about that before. I guess there are two points. First: don't just conform to ideas you don't fully understand. Second: don't take for granted what others provide—bread, fish, or whatever else. If you know you're going to waste it, don't bother. Take only what you truly need. No more, no less. And the most important rule, live for yourself, not for others nor your desires.
":o"
You seem surprised that it is so simple and effective. Why? Can't a man just be a petty bitch-face and wise all in the same breath. just for a moment. Huh.
"..."
What.
"!!!"
That's just the trauma speaking, well you're not wrong. Ok. I admit it. But why is this thinking incorrect, please explain it to me in terms I can understand.
"#### ### ###### ####"
No, sorry I should've explained it better to you. You didn't need to swear for me to understand what you were saying.
"??!"
"Kindness and empathy!" Ptooey. Of course I would myself be preferred with this sort of treatment. Yes, I agree with you. But the rules of engagement are so very clear. If I begin to doubt the credibility of the other party to reciprocate this unspoken consideration, even for the smallest inconvenience, how am I supposed to trust them with something as valuable as my life? Isn't this just the prisoner's dilemma in action? A shame, really, that the best and most obvious outcome is almost always the rarest to occur, even when both sides should know better.
"???"
Never mind, you wouldn't get it anyway.
Ahead, Cindy's pace slows, easing until Samuel follows suit.
Then we stop.
For some reason.
I take in the scenery — that distant, poetic grandeur now is standing before me, unabashed and perfectly nude.
Now of all times… go back, shoo, shoo.
It stands still, stiff, awkwardly erect as if in deep contemplation of the world's mortal affairs.
If I try to hide it and accidentally touch it, does that make me gay?
Not that it's wrong, but… this body wasn't originally mine.
So whose erection is it, really?
If we both felt it — whose erection would it be?
I glance around.
Good — no one's watching.
I lift my pants, guiding the stubborn thing with the back of my hand, tucking it neatly beneath the drawstring.
A red little head — like a sausage dog begging for affection still peeks through up at me.
No. That won't do. Down boy.
I fold my shirt over, tighten and readjusting the drawstring.
There.
Am I a professional or what?
For a moment, I admire the result of my effort.
Then I look up again, two curious pupils glare back at me growing in confusion.
My cheeks burn.
I turn away, rubbing my face, pretending to brush away fluff at my un-groomed mustache. Then I place my hand underneath my chin and slowly begin nodding to myself.
That was too close.
After a few minutes of going through these calculated diversions, the nervous current gradually fades, and my peace of mind returns.
We've arrived.
The end of my travels, the edge of my exhaustion.
Ahead lies our destination — a prairie of jeweled splendor waiting to be claimed.
A home.
My home.
My hand twitches.
Yes, you too, old friend.
You were silent when I needed you most.
Your days are numbered, you ungrateful bastard.
My hand trembles.
Can't take a joke, can you?