“The end is Neigh!” the little girl shouted, on her corner, where she’d been for twenty years, “the end is Neigh! Don’t forget to pack.” The people passed her by, throwing small change. What she was going to do with it after lunch time – when the world was set to implode – nobody knew.
Everything was dirty, everything had turned to filth; a war of colours. Laughing desperately, they fought on; wounded and beleaguered, surrounded and encircled by beasts of their own design. Nobody even understood the point, anymore. Nobody could grasp how something so beautiful had turned so ugly. They’d laugh about it in times to come, history having scrubbed clean the memories; but the villagers would never forget.
It began with a simple gesture, so childish and yet so out of place in this refuge from maturity. It began with a single little thing. It always does, it always will. The little things provoke change. Chance and Providence do the rest, playing with the strings of reality till the least likely becomes a near certainty. That’s the way reality plays out, with little Gods cackling behind the sc(re)en[e].
The vortex dances ballet along the edge of our free will. Will we be absolved of all when the void pulls us in? Will we be forgiven our sins when nothing remains? Sketches of an artist plying her trade; infinite recession as she draws ever smaller pictures of herself. The frame changes, the point of view swivels and the drawings spiral out of control.
How can we portray ourselves?
Counting Music in Circles
2 years ago
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