A marvel that he had nothing to do. A world so large, a thing for everyone, and yet he had nothing. Nor did he look for much. It’d all be mindless labor. Nothing to care about; all that had been tried. So he sat there, and slowly even the information came down to zero and his mind started to go blank, an unintended meditation. So he meditated until he was ready to starve, and it hit him, starvation! New info, new thoughts, meditation was disrupted. He went rapturously to his food, with all the brain power concentrated, all walls white and nothing to distract. He tasted tastes never tasted, and thought all he could about the bits he had eaten, the little blemishes on the plate, tried to count from memory the seconds it had taken to eat, envisioned the precise colors. He picked his teeth and scrutinized every piece he found, then tasted again, compared the taste to that of the freshly eaten. But at some point the teeth were empty, the plate memorized in every detail, tastes connected and compared and imaginarily combined, and the sounds of chewings of all particles analyzed. Then the blank came again, the forced meditation, and so he lived on.
It began again, the pitfall of an end. The high skies of a beautiful life, shot with precision, all words well thought out, a heaven of an earthly life. And I could feel myself falling away from it, right back to a chair in a house with no jumping about to rush when it should, end the lines where the beauty stays lingering. How could I hold on? It was a permanent cycle of addiction to that heavenly earth above and I kept rolling down and climbing up to another and wondering if all the writers and directors and actors and fictitious characters and fake furniture were all-powerful creators that stayed in their heavens for as long as they wishes and climbed down only when desired and of course they never did. And if they were not, how it must pain to fall from a world created by oneself and left above for others to fall from, never to be the same again, repetition never the same. Though I hit the chair and it doesn’t hurt save the thought of a feat I rolled from and realization that my innards had become empty of the heavens without a blink or a trace other than a far memory that could fade away as a dream that’s been named.
The skeletons were sinking in merriment. They spoke loudly and with voices droning to all outsiders, though there were none. One talked of an ear he’d lost before the flesh, another of her great hunting career. Their flesh was there too, by now the fog around them. It was all foggy with white and slow patches of them in it, and they were festive. With no mind, that was the closest they could get to sincerity, and they’d feel that too, if only they could. They told only stories, interrupted without shame, and did not mind, for their hearts and minds had become the fog around. They spoke and in their speeches, one told of how she’d been turned into her dead self. “My car broke,” she droned, “that man got out of his own car and pushed mine down the valley. I screamed and was pained and I came here.” No emotion could be sensed from the voices. A tale of no passion was droned out of every skull, with the fog outside. Another bunch of bones monotoned. “I pushed you. You were my friend, you betrayed and made me mad. And so I pushed. My revenge.” The female bunch replied, “I did not know you.” The skull nodded. “Then a mistake had been done.” And they droned on. After a time, a wind came around. The fog was gone, and the skeletons fell around, into the wet graves. God droned out, “Justice has been done. All life must be gone.” And so all life was gone.
S/he got tired of it all, of all the manners and bottles they’d made up through the ages, only to survive. S/he could feel everything bottled up when they were, and s/he longed to crack those bottles as much as the sum of all bottled humans on Earth and moon and the periphery. So s/he decided to leave this world be and made another one, with all the axioms and evolution and survival toppled for the sake of bottle cracking. S/he let everyone scream when in need and punch where the bottle filled up, chop out body parts at whim and bite mouths off in frustration, and s/he let there be no regret, heaven, hell, eternity. And s/he sat back, at peace with wild expression of no hindrance, enjoying the hymn of the cracks. And the other world sat still, forgotten, left behind, billions of bottles in stock and tons being added still. An oblivious god s/he was, an oblivious god.
A rascal was there that night, hiding among the bushes. He looked at it stealthily, from behind the curtain, with the lights dimmed so it wouldn’t know. He noticed the melancholic look on its face but couldn’t resist this time, and walked away from the window. The rascal saw him come out of the door and lightened up, with a bit of confusion mingled there. It didn’t know what to do. The joy of its dreams switching to reality had paralysed it. But the rascal needn’t worry, for the man ran at it from the door, his radiation brightening the bushes, like two full moons, and lifted the awed rascal and kissed it on every spot on its body, from paws to the lips to the tail. And then they lay down, gazing at the stars, faces all shining smiles, wondering what they had been waiting for.
In the land where no one knew of age, people lived. They lived with no history, no power, no progress. They were only born one moment and then became like all others. Ever children. And so when they died, no one remembered and no mourning ensued. And after that, others were born, ever children, with only space, no spacetime. And that was until outsiders arrived and told them of time, and so the bloodshed of continuity began.
As they walked, a loud explosion was heard. The street startled. All conversations gave way to the dominance of the smoke that rose from the now-gone sound. The more diligent were ready to dial, to call for help, save people. But then he came out, with a white-grey lab coat and a joyful face. “It’s worked!” he said. The walkers, now excited to be part of history, forgot the firemen and asked of his discovery. “It’s worked!” he only said, his mouth widening as he stood outside the building. The walkers, curious, rushed past the mad scientist and into the building. Moments later they reappeared beside the scientist and uttered with awe, “It’s worked!” The others on the street asked them of what they were talking, but they too only exclaimed that “It’s worked!” So a second group went in, and in coming out, spoke out the same words, “It’s worked!” and answered with none other. Third, fourth and fifth groups went in and soon the street was only filled with the same sentence coming out of the inhabitants’ lips, that “It’s worked.” And so months later no human was to be found in the city, all having given way to starvation, and no one was left to tell others what it was that had worked.