There is that which can not be understood: a sharply defined realm of the unknown. Our minds touch upon this secret only fleetingly, In moments of self reflection and lucidity, there is only be silence of the soul. When the mind is free from any shadows of fear or lingering nightmare, then and only then can this be explored.
The key turns slowly in the lock.
The gate slides open to frigid darkness and vibrant color, pigments of very thought. My heart leaps into my throat choking away the consciousness, with timid, and faltering steps I cross the threshold to enter the silent chamber. Give me a way to capture this essence of life and return it to this world of horror and shame, I shall shiver away the curtain of darkness that enshrouds our world, I will copy the keys and give them to all the gatekeepers with a charge to let all pass who desire entrance. When the last of the mindless shades have passed forever from the torrid darkness and into the color of thought: the gates will be shut fast, the keys all melted down to nothing, and this realm returned to desolation with only myself: a lone sacrifice.
Guarding the void from habitation.
Darkness beneath the trees; twilight falls slowly down to the mossy leaf strewn earth, while I wait hidden between the dark void of the sky, and the sharp eyes of my pursuers, I keep my breath low and patient, my gaze even and wary.
Time crawls across my rifle barrel and drips from my lips. It is the only real currency in this old world, it is the only thing we have to spend. Your time can be wasted away, or given away, bartered away, and taken away.
Movement crests the ridge below, and two men push their shoulders up against the deepening sky, moving silently into view like small black beetles crawling over a branch… They are looking for me.
They have been found.
Crosshairs divide features from darkness, silence from an echoing report. Unspent time… Unspent time.
This is my Cuneiform Epitaph.
Scratches on clay the remnants of lives, tiny sparks that winked brightly and then went out; time consuming the present moment by moment, Langoliers following closely behind, watching for scraps and pouncing on wasted time.
When flesh grows cold, and entropy consumes blood, bones, and essence leaving nothing for the dusty shrines in the desert. Perhaps some would-be excavator will unearth or draw up from the bog and weedy rushes some ancient oxygen deprived preserved mystery. Some brine soaked encrusted memory devoid of identity. What sharpened flint points of logic and rhetoric will be discussed in papers of those learned and versed in the unknowable?
As Ötzi mulled over pre-stoic ideals and post-grazing utopias while munching roots and mushrooms, I am hunched before this scrap of plant fibers mashed down, boiled over and pressed out. I grasp my blunt tool and bleed dark Voynician prayers to the Old Ones still hidden in deep cold abysses of time and dark water.