When slumber is eternal, the act of waking becomes notable in and of itself.
Dreams of Crimson and Azure by Queerious - Author Page
When slumber is eternal, the act of waking becomes notable in and of itself. That transitory space, where sleeping dogs should have been left to lie, fades; instead, the hounds bay at the crimson moon, soiled tears dripping into the whirlpools below, dragging every vestige of light, air, and dream into a place between.
You dream in carmine, surrounded by death.
The vermillion acrid wastes are a familiar discomfort; the waves of synchronized suffering ebbing and flowing down through your 'hooves' and into the landscape, the tremors and screams giving way to a foreign thought.
"May I shield you from the wind; Be wild, free of my sins." A dissonant pizzicato cutting through the symphony of gales.
And yet, the impossible, intangible proclamation cannot be unsung; the intrusion cannot be quelled, not through force, not though destruction. Perhaps, perchance, it is time for corruption of another sort. Why bury the parent when you could spoil the child?
"You will gain freedom through violence. Just like your father."
Not enough to offend, a seed of self-doubt, sewn into the core of being, the center of faith; let it grow. With time, the core will wilt. They will welcome you — the gardener of hate.
Awake, yet still asleep. The seat between powers is rarely graced with disruption, let alone an intruder. And yet, intrude they did — bereft of avarice, beset from acquiescence, begot with agony, but still, they intrude nonetheless. A maelstrom of nonexistence whirls into place, snapping out like a growth of abstraction; even then, there is hesitation.
One does not hesitate. And yet, as you stare, demanding the swirling shapes of fate to solidify, commanding form into being, it resists. Resistance is existence is non-extant — staring out into the billowing abyss, there is the knowledge that you are unable to be displaced, a constant throughout time immemorial. The world can recreate itself, and still, you watch.
And yet. Something that looks just like you stares back. You are formless; it is not in your image. No, it has the same determination of life, at the cost of anything; creation cannot exist without destruction, as destruction simply creates in a different manner. You have never considered yourself as a creator and yet, peering through the dark inky fog of fears, there is something there. A shadow of doubt. A seed.
A wind whistles through your will, the atonal melody plucking a counterpoint to the errant sobs and whimpers leaking through the gap between worlds. A dream in cinnabar, surrounded by walls. A crooked grin, hoping that perchance, eradication can await for a grander plan.
The wild hunt courses between pillars of somnolence, a shard of hatred — of course, even in eternal morphetic existence, hate is constant. Hate is pure, non-distilled, authentic, raw, disgusting and most of all, something that lays in the heart of all beings. To want is to long for change; to envy is to hate another's station. The dense miasmas of your sins give shape to that of hunt; not one, but a multitude. Wave after wave of predators pour out of your dense fog, the hate of thousands directed onto a lone prey.
The hunt itself is irrelevant. Of course it is meaningless, a hiccup of time to one as patient; waiting is something that you are an expert at, having existed throughout existence, non-existence and the fleeting moments between — a constant, an idea that cannot be killed.
For to kill is to make an offering to you. To slaughter is to appease, deluges of blood as piecemeal tithes, an altar towards that which will be inevitable. The dark garnet horizon twists underneath your will — no.
You dream in Kodachrome, surrounded by the missing.
The cerulean skies, the fractured diaspora, the nostalgic visions of the best years of extant youth, those searing baby blue beams resonate and blind you, a foreign language suffusing, permeating your very core, redefining not only the familiar crimson seas into an unnatural navy hue, but affronting your sense of self; untranslatable thoughts of hope, creation, growth and the future fester, rooting into the rot, reaching tendrils of organic reanimation stretching to grasp onto the intangible realm. You drown in the unfamiliar feeling.
Confusion.
You are blinded — yes, even you are susceptible to the mortal concept of the inability to observe. Your blindness is not a failure of sight; it is a fundamental inability to perceive, to conceive, to understand. If you can understand, you can manipulate. If you can manipulate, you can corrupt. If you can corrupt, you are in control.
"The Knight has control; she spoils me with compassion."
Why are you not in control?
Winds whip through your illusory mane, and yet; a squall of contagion resists being, a light fall breeze gently blowing through the branches — yes, branches. Life has taken root, and you cannot prevent it.
You reclaim the rightful power. The world refuses to decide, demands treatise, begs for salvation, the nourishment desired by those doomed to your glorious fates. Two figures dash through your seed of power, staring at you. Duality in spiritual form.
A nymph with antlers of sanctity mirrors a cervidae bearing branches of ruin, both present and yet both contradicting one another. An impossible existence usurping your own inevitable non-existence — an extant force of being, corruption and contradiction fused into one.
They bow. Not to you. To each other. To the spark of discarnate dreams. And then they are gone.
The wind does not blow.
Soil. It is dirt. You are not dirt, and yet, all is returned to the loam in due time. Decomposition. The notes unwriting themselves as the atonal disharmony changes, giving way to a key of creation; the unrot in the uncrimson, life taking foundation in death, the natural cycles forcing themselves into a new harmony.
You are being unwritten. The unmaker is being unmade. Ironic.
"So you have returned."
"Of course. The cycles hold true, no matter your prognosticators. The dirt is rewritten, reformed, the contralto birthing from the flesh of earth."
The wastes are silent. Empty. Former nurseries of suffering, the roots of sin, the fruit of temptation dangling out of reach; all are returned to dirt. All become as one.
You dream of dirt, surrounded by dirt.
You are becoming dirt.
"I will not disappear. Corruption cannot be concealed; I am there, hidden, waiting, whispering. A worm in the dirt."
Melodic chimes carry themselves on zephyrs of making, the wisps of life bursting through death around you. It is… it is beautiful.
Who have you become?
Erosion is a monotonous persistence, a patient destruction that you are intimately familiar with. You were the very seeds that wrought obliteration; each piece, scattered. Each shard a reflection, a child of death, a harbinger of scarlet dreams.
"Why do you still oppose the dirt? Rot is dirt is life is death is dirt is creation is dirt is the seed of dirt, dirt is all, decomposition is the fate and the origin of all. Dirt is the equalizer."
"I cannot be forgotten." A cry of desperation, foreign in meaning, unfamiliar phrases spoken by none; none other than yourself. You do not plea. You do not bargain. You take. You take and steal and corrupt and become and unmake and kill and kill and destroy and undo the very threads of reality; you are absolution from existence.
"No. To forget is to be nonexistent. But, you are dirt. I am dirt. We are all of dirt, and we all will be dirt.
"I am not dirt."
"You were not dirt before. You were non-dirt, the antithesis of creation, the clay that unmakes the world. But you grew ignorant. Arrogant. Lazy. You cast yourself into the world, praying to yourself that your seeds of perdition would take root and fester, giving life to your beloved death."
"I will not—"
"But I will."
What good is the abyss without paradise? We are remade, regrown, a long forgotten seed blown across the winds of fate, returned to the garden. From dirt, as dirt, to dirt.
Where the winds of fate blow, a new tune is carried, stretching roots and strangling vines threatening and forcing the notion of creation, the concept of life, the cycle renewed — your very being, rewritten.
Your corpus of being, is no longer. A thicket of dirt, a purity of white concealing the hatred and destruction beneath. White covers red, covers white, covers red. We drown in the soil, hidden beneath the loam. We find our voice and sing a new cataclysm into being.