Post-Mortem Dream

Emil bit through the rough, bark-like skin of the red sky. He gnawed and chewed with his formless mouth, making a bigger and bigger hole until the cosmos gaped with a wound large enough for him to fit through. Though, as he did, he fell. From his loudly chanting cloud casket he descended at the pull of the world below. Leaving his dead body above and behind, in another realm, he contemplated not his human husk. For he was something else now, dreamed up in the last remaining moments of his flesh.

 

As he fell, he thought of his existence and doubted it. He then realized that in doubting himself, he had proven his own existence. If I did not exist, surely I would not be able to form such doubts! He reasoned as the ground rushed to meet him.

 

With a loud poof, Emil hit the top of a hill in a small town, amidst a few squalid houses and black pine trees. He rose, unharmed, and examined himself. What’s this? I am covered in ash. He thought as he tried to brush off the debris. But, he soon found that he was not covered in ash, but WAS ash. He looked around to gauge his surroundings, remnants of his human mind looking for patterns. It was then he spotted others, who were also ashen in form. “Greetings!” Emil called out, in a voice like that of gravel thrown upon slate, to one nearest himself, who turned and regarded him with massive rusty eyes. They waved him over, with a single, slowly decaying arm of soot. They then walked away, as if encouraging Emil to follow, while whispering of reviving the dead.

 

Curious, he did, and soon saw others of similar form marching parallel. They were all congregating downhill, and after following these other dust people for a short while, he came to a large crowd surrounding a wide well. All were incanting of coming dawn.

 

Emil joined the ring of ash pilgrims around the well just as a bright light began to rise from it. With a sound like thick dripping and a smell like sun-warmed soil, a brilliant  orange orb ascended from the well. The great gathering cheered at this and all began to rush forth, holding up buckets. “Collect the light!” They all repeatedly screamed in unison as the horizon darkened. They seemed to thirst for the light born of water.

© 2020 Rahaman Writing

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"One such Spark, but a mere fraction of Order, became the source for all we know upon Okeanós. While spinning and soaring through the many violent tendrils of Chaos, this particular Spark willed for it to stop; for the madness and rushing of void mixed with explosions of light to cease. So it forced the chaotic clouds around itself to shift into a pattern. It gave reason and rhythm to the matter and energy, previously untamed, until the void and light coarsed together, in harmony, at the weaving will of this Spark. Near the bottom of the page sharing this information, it is mentioned that there was a ‘God’ who had succumbed to a Chaos-stricken madness following the learning of these details. How they transferred the information, and what became of them, is not mentioned until the reference section, which I shall get to a bit later, as they warrant explanation as well..."