Treatment Records

What will it be, what will it be?  The earth and sky and sea seemed to hum this query.  What will it be?  The Broken wanders aimlessly across the countryside, dried forbs crunching underfoot, polluting with darkness. Existence is pain; there are options, options, for relief. Animal, vegetable, mineral; the landscape pulses, whispering, half song, half threat.  What will it be? What will it be?  Blotted by vapour, the sun casts a sallow light. The Broken does not recognize this, mired in despair, plodding to a destination unknown and unattainable. Goal unreachable, forward motion continues, for what else is there but to keep going? There is no choice. Tissue sloughs into earth, unnoticed, as footprints extend in a growing line to the proximally distant nothing. Gnarling, blackened flesh withers, the Broken trudges on. Aeons pass. A bleached scaffold lies in the sun and dust, preceded by a long and winding line. There was no terminus.  What wi...

There was darkness.  Darkness was in itself, and of itself, and beyond itself.  It expanded through itself and filled itself, floating above itself and sinking beneath itself, for existence was darkness and darkness existed.  There was neither time nor space nor gravity, for there were no laws, only darkness.  There was no heat or life or music, for such things could not be, only darkness. Darkness pulsed and writhed, turning over itself and rotating within itself, neither blind nor deaf nor dumb for there existed naught to see nor hear nor speak, only darkness. There was no awareness, and darkness knew neither of itself nor of its ignorance of itself.  Until she opened her eyes, and remembered her name.  She cried out once, a singular, crystal peal of purest agony, and went extinct.  16 Apr 2017; 11:08pm