patchwork narrative - Creature

[libramoon]

patchwork narrative - Creature

JUL 3

http://postapocalypse13.tumblr.com/

Creature


If this planet were destroyed, would I go out with it?
Would I float in dark space, horribly starving, eternally
conscious? Where would my mind go? What would fill
my unmarked time? Have I enough bearable memories
to loop into a self-contained movie? Maybe I could
create an epic mythology, ever evolving. I could abandon
reason to fantasy, assume precepts, deny unbound
emptiness.
Here, in man’s domain, there is no room for emptiness,
no dearth of boundaries.
I define a space underground, bound by concrete,
brick, dead wood, living mold, tiny insect homes, must,
dust, bits of broken history. No sign or scent of human
occupation. I memorize routes from several directions.
Another forgotten part of this unruly city, never repaired
after disaster. Uncared for, ignored even by indigents,
left for dead. Perhaps someone with imagination will
reclaim this land, but not today. I can assume safety
for awhile.
Meanwhile, I have still hours of open night.
I visit familiar neighborhoods, watch same old scenes with
their twists for standard variation.
It is said that the world is very old, mankind a young player.
Yet, look at this rut, this rot, this silly perambulation.
The old gods must be bored into cruelty, high irony where
they can pry it in.
In some of my fantasies I conjure a world better off without
them. All the nonhuman creatures, the natural formations,
the supernatural sprites, gods, demon hunters, have no real
need of mankind. We could be fine together, each just being.
The ecosystem works itself out, in its own order, in its own
time.
Certainly we can’t count on these buffoons for entertainment.
Occasionally a vivid story is portrayed. Mostly it is tiresome
re-runs. Yet I too have learned to fear surprise. Same old can
be horribly tedious. New can destroy what little seems like
sanity. Stories repeat for good reason. Stability can be so rare.
Some kind of rock to cling upon, to fashion into home, feels
instinctual.
My instinct now sets me in direction of the hunt. Soon I will
contemplate cleaning house, to groom my new found room,
make it presentable for guest. Or maybe I still have time to find
a hideaway less squalid.
Right now I sense and track a victim who won’t be missed.
The memories that haunt me laugh. My forming plans pause.
I am creature of the night.

[creativesoul]

awesome-