I sleep on the bones of the populace. Under my weight they moan and groan, and sometimes it’s all there is to break the bleak silence of a cold dead world. I walked for days to find food, what felt like months to find shelter, but true to my evolutionary impulse I found myself back home. Walking in circles, in cycles, like humanity itself. Peace begat war, heaving societies were destroyed in the blink of an eye. The airwaves feed me archive pictures of genocide and I shiver.
In my time down here, time I’ve long since stopped counting, the very nature of war is questioned as I stare into the burnt sky. The grey clouds above me bend under the weight of the question; what was all of this for? The nature of existence was probed, my reality now fractured because I am all that is left. I am existence. I am wisdom. And I have nothing.
I tried to switch channels once only to hear the sound of white noise screeching in the wind. Like everything else in this new world I bare the millstone of my own expectation with a grimace. It’s nothing like the old one, the old, dead one. But that question still remains: what was this war for? In the broadcast silence all I could find were the answers that I made for myself, answers to questions which no longer mattered. I transformed broadcast silence into a scream, one which now echoes along the charred plains to no one. Why is there noise instead of nothing? If no one is there to hear the noise, is it noise? Does it matter?
The questions scare me. Eliot said that he would show us fear in a handful of dust but now all that’s left is dust, all that’s left is fear; all that’s left is static.
Nothing belongs here. A world formally in flux is now a barren scorched land, not even containing earth, simply a mere shadow of earth. I crawl through broken streets alone. In and out of cities which are half annihilated half frozen, where shadows on walls are all that remain of people, preserved in the place where they stood when someone pressed the red button that set the world ablaze. At night, when I go back to my bones, I think I can hear screaming and howling in the distance. You shouldn’t come here; why would you? Before the bomb we questioned our place in the universe, the prospect of a meaningless existence, a life without direction and now after the bomb I can tell you that I feel this more acutely than ever before. The signals and stations which I used to output no longer come, the meaning is gone.
The grey sky sheds black tears, the fallout blows in from the west and I’m left in the remains of an ashen city, my teeth sunk into existential theories that no one will ever get to hear.
No, don’t come here. I have nothing.
Created: Aug 01, 2012THMRK Document Media