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The lit cigarette in my hand grasped desperately for purchase between… - The Second Greatest Failure of Omnipotence
2007-12-17 03:46 am
The lit cigarette in my hand grasped desperately for purchase between my apathetic fingers. My forearms ached from the constant pressure of the slender metal railing supporting them, though I'd only been leaning on it for less than a minute. My friend and roommate Mike stood near me, staring into the same sparsely mountainous horizon as I did. The first tendrils of evening were curling their way around late afternoon as deceptively slowly as the cigarette smoke that danced up between my fingers. In the far distance the first hues of pale yellow-gray were cropping up, but overhead the sky still shouted loudly with its lightning blue vigor and clarity. Vast bluffs of billowing white clouds towered in isolated patches here and there, the sure sign of late night thunderstorms to come. Below, a few of the neighbor's children played in the parking lot on their tricycles. They're young; no more than 8 years old for the eldest.

For a brief second I'm disoriented by this scene. At first glance, it seems like one of the rare few times (too few, in fact) that Mike and I take a step outside to catch the budding Tucson sunset. Contradictions flare conspicuously in this estimation, though, when I note that the weather is warm and fair, perhaps Tucson in early spring, when yesterday even sunny Tucson was a brisk fifty degrees Fahrenheit at this time. The clothing I and the people around me are wearing confirm this fair weather, yet deep down I simply know that it is early spring, and that the yesterday in the shallow Tucson winter was merely a dream.

"So," I started suddenly to interrupt my thoughts, "they say it'll happen here."

"Mmhmm," Mike replied simply. Quiet almost descends.

"Well, there is a spot of good news," I said. "I've decided to quit smoking."

Mike released a soft, bitter chuckle, and after I took my last drag on the Marlboro, I let the cigarette fall 15 feet to the sidewalk below us, my hand flopping ineffectually to the railing again. I meant it. That was my last cigarette ever. After, I pulled a blank on any topic of conversation that may fit the situation. We continued standing on the communal balcony of our apartment complex, staring into the distance, waiting. Below us, the children stopped their vigorous trike riding, appearing to be temporarily infected with the calmness present that afternoon.

We could've been there for seconds, minutes, hours, even days, propped up against that railing, unmoving but seeing straight into our own futures, and I still would have hoped deeply for just a few seconds more, just a few seconds more of this quiet afternoon, and just one more sunset. That was not to be.

At that moment, the deep tranquility of the sky was sundered viciously by a cruelly burning fireshrike that rocketed overhead of us, several thousand feet in the air. The missile spat behind it violent orange-red flames that spun turbulently in the air before their hatred cooled into soot-black plumes of malevolent smoke. The missile itself was cartoonishly large. It was no more a missile than a space shuttle, gargantuan in scale. Its unholy, thunderous wailing waned as we saw it falling greedily upon its its prey, the same spot that Mike and I had been staring at, questioningly, for what could have been our entire lives but was only one or two minutes at most.

"It-" I stutter.

"Yeah," Mike finishes quietly.

There was no transition between the shattered halcyon afternoon and the immediate aftermath of the blast. The bulbous mushroom cloud and the vile bloody sky of a Hell finally realized appeared instantaneously in place of our stark blue and white heavens, as though God had grown sloppy with his creation and merely pasted Apocalyptic clip art into His violent reality to replace our world, our existence. For two seconds this image shimmered on our horizon. Our horizon, our future, turned to ash in a single instant.

This temporary pause was brief, no doubt placed in by our cackling Creator so that we could realize the entirety with which our meek, lowly, human dreams were being violated into the Nether. The blast was powerful, and even at a distance of over a hundred miles my slack, unbelieving feet could feel the nuke raping deeply into Mother Earth, to its very core. My eyes narrowed sorrowfully, pitifully, as far in the distance I saw mountains crumble, and the remaining clouds in the sky dragged into the blast as it approached. Fissures scarred the earth and raced dreadfully fast towards us, their black dagger apexes preceding impossibly the blast wave that should have already ended us. As the atmosphere itself was destroyed, the cloak of the remaining daylight was ripped aside to reveal the countless stars of infinite universes that would never be touched by any man; there shall be no trespasses against the domain of They named Elohim by one so lowly as man. As the blast traveled underground and the fractures expanded, lumps of earth as large as cities and mountains were rolled quickly and heavily into the air in large chunks, and the stars began to fall one by one from the night sky, weeping in loss, before the black-red ceiling of the Abyss and the Blast descended once again.

I looked upon this in silent, calm horror. With increasingly sickening speed, the preternaturally large masses of land moaned heavily into the air before crashing in upon themselves as the explosion traveled beneath us, freeing the Abyss from its constraints to swallow up the world above it. Following behind it, I could see the white fire of the blast wave shrieking towards us. Soon, it would hit. I stood propped against the railing, still, with Mike standing near me. I looked over at him.

"I, uh...I'll see you around, Mike," I croaked out meekly, before dropping my head.

"Yeah, man," he replied in the same soft tone, "I'll see ya' around."

My respects payed to my friend, and with the white wrath of the End almost upon us, I had one short moment, briefer than the smile of an infant before it morphs into cries of sorrow and want, to think my very last thought.

I closed my eyes for the last time, and the same fiery avatar of resurrection that had haunted me for fifteen years engraved itself upon my imagination. Now almost free from myself and the world, I could finally see it in its entirety, could see its terrible beauty, feel its glorious fire enrapture all of my flesh without restraint, and taste its powerfully, otherworldly incense as it filled my lungs. For one millisecond of my 21 years of near nonexistence, it took roost upon the gaping hole in my soul, in everyone's soul, and I finally knew what it meant to be alive. What had abandoned me for so long, leaving me in piteous blackness, gave itself unto me wholly, and I knew then I had transcended God when the blast wave hit me.



Any storyteller that tells you that Man descends into blackness when he dies is a liar, through and through, for I have known Death intimately. When you die, everything becomes the purest white, as the sins of Consciousness and Knowledge are swept clean from your mind and you are granted the same reprieve of quiet innocence that all beings have at birth. Everything you know fades white, and then you simply cease.



This was the dream that came upon me a few nights ago. I rarely remember my dreams, though the ones I do always leave a lasting impression. Each one granting a momentary reprieve from this universal ennui upon us, they are always, without out fail, snatched out of my grasp by the strong, small hands of a bitterly tittering fairy. Whether they are scenes of beauty beyond the mind of the most skilled painter in the world, or bits of song that no ear has ever heard but that every person, upon birth, hopes they are blessed with hearing--and yes, some of my dreams do have classical scores which would shame the talents of Bach--they are always revealed to me. Along with them comes the silent prescience of all dreams, which imparts the knowledge that these things, despite their omnigodly origin, can be had at any waking moment because they are mine and mine alone.

Yet upon waking, and trying to grasp them and hold them close so that I can cherish them, and create new things upon their omniscient archetypes, they dissipate and I am left staring into the world again, ultimately alone. I'm sure they've narrowed down the fatigue and excessive sleep that arises from depression (or as I like to call it, my Old-Buddy-Old-Pal Big "D") to some chemical interaction in the brain, and if they haven't they very well might in the future. However, I know everyone has iconoclastic dreams like this, very rarely, maybe once every year or two. They accept them and they move on with their life. Broken people, people not well-adjusted such as myself, seize upon them and lust for them much more severely than normal people, because they see what little Life has to offer them. Those who have the hooks of despair latched deeply within them must sleep, for it is the only way they remember what life can be like outside of their mind's prison.

A day or two from now, my friend and roommate Mike will be on his way to his new life in Austin, an endeavor that has my full support and my best wishes for him. I suppose this is the context for the dream in question.

I think it's time to go back to sleep for a while. I'll be seein' ya' half a year from now, or so, when I update again.

Also, thanks for the Christmas card, Ms. You-Know-Who. Though don't think I don't know that the kids in the photo are really midget actors you hired help you continue to hide your secret agent double-life, ma'am. I'm crafty.

Current Music: SiKth - "Bland Street Bloom"

14CommentReplyShare

amesha_spentas
amesha_spentas
Amesha
2007-12-17 01:35 pm (UTC)

oh lookie you are still alive


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2007-12-17 01:44 pm (UTC)

Nowai. Totally died in a nuclear blast while some bearded dude in a white cloak who lives in the clouds guffawed madly at my end.

This post is only here because I gave my sister my account info and told her to give a short update to my friends here in case I ever passed on.

Never mind the fact that she was wiped out in the apocalyptic blast as well. NO YOU SHUT UP.


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mortimer_ford
mortimer_ford
Mortimer Ford
2007-12-17 01:54 pm (UTC)

Beautiful.

I dream of tornadoes myself. It is said to be a bad thing by people who leverage their symbolism to certain books, but I know better.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2007-12-17 02:03 pm (UTC)

What sort of tornadoes? Destructive ones? Or fake dream-kind ones?

Dream-tornadoes would always shoot me up into the sky so I could either fly or float safely back down to earth from an impossible height.

To my dismay, I'm told that attempts to recreate this in real life is frowned upon by the Surgeon General. I still smoke.


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mortimer_ford
mortimer_ford
Mortimer Ford
2007-12-17 05:23 pm (UTC)

Both. Mile wide monsters, smaller ropelike ones and everything inbetween. When they come they are everywhere. Very surreal and doomladen. The smaller ones would give me a little lift. Like David Blain if you can imagine.


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matrixx
matrixx
Aardvark of Justice!
2007-12-17 06:00 pm (UTC)

The real magic is that the role of Santa was actually played by a glamourous tranny hooker named Tiffanique. Also, I'll be selling the midgets on Craigslist. Stock up, you can never have too many midgets! :-*


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2007-12-18 01:24 am (UTC)

That Santa did look a little shady. You sure he didn't offer the midgets a swig from a jug of whiskey when you weren't looking?


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matrixx
matrixx
Aardvark of Justice!
2007-12-18 02:05 am (UTC)

I saw them shoot up some heroin, but it there was whiskey involved I wasn't aware of it.


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clockworkari
clockworkari
Neurotica
2007-12-18 03:39 am (UTC)

I hold those feelings, those sights I dream of sometimes so close to me I am afraid that they might burst apart. It doesn't matter how good or bad my life is. I have the haunting feeling that if I had the chance to live inside one of these worlds I would instantly choose to throw everything away, everyone I loved, to snuggle inside those crevices of my brain.

I am not sure if this means I am still unhappy or if those moments are just so beautiful that everything else looks dim.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2007-12-18 10:32 pm (UTC)

Yar. (I've picked up the habit of saying "Yar" in place of "yes" or "yeah", lately. Dunno where. Ignore, move on, thankyouverymuch.)

I still owe certain dreamscapes their due place in reality in the form of artwork, considering how long they've been scored into my mind. The most powerful of those is the one I always go back to, the only thing that ever motivates my hand anymore, getting closer and closer to getting it right but never quite "there". I believe the one I have cropped in my avatar is the closest I've gotten yet.

(I will say that getting nuked to death in a dream, or even dying period, is a new one on me. Strange enough to get me to post, anyway.).


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2007-12-18 10:33 pm (UTC)

Also, I use parentheses lots and lots because I'm too lazy to think of a way to tactfully write the goddamned endless asides I feel I have to spew out before I say my piece.


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aphiddavid
aphiddavid
SeanbabyComputer
2008-02-02 06:03 am (UTC)

Ha ha, nice try, Mozart. Bach isn't classical; he's baroque.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2008-02-04 08:42 pm (UTC)

Haha, nice try, Vivaldi. I'm not refined enough to give enough of a shit to differentiate between Renaissance/baroque/classical/neoclassical music. IT ALL ARE USE PIANOS AND VIOLENZ.


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aphiddavid
aphiddavid
SeanbabyComputer
2008-02-05 07:39 pm (UTC)

Last night I had a dream too. It told me that "gay.com stinks.I am looking 4 people 2 eat with and try new places .I like Tv ,movies and more .Hit me uop if u r interested .I am 46 years old male" and needless to say it was a nightmare indistinguishable from reality.


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