“Origin”
by S.Gonzalez
Deep inside the lair of the Hermit of Dust; hidden within his arcane collection, is the ultimate secret. This treasure of wisdom, the gem of philosophers and the evolution of human thought are kept from the eyes of the prying ignorant world. The hermit has always been there, surrounded by endless dust even in the air, he waits for anyone to ask "the Question". The cavernous dwelling has but one window, yet if one looked upon the lair’s plan, that window shouldn’t view anything more than solid rock. Yet this peculiar window constantly shifts according to a will all it’s own. Illumination comes from simple fixtures located along side the writing covered rock walls. The authors of the cryptic text on the walls, even the ceiling, range from Babylon to the “Modern Age”. The Hermit looks on such things and chuckles under his breath, words are often nonsense when compared to truth. There is a mirror room, it is gleaming and polished ,in the nude, to ensure no dust shall fall there. That room was designed to cause madness and to extract enlightenment at a heavy cost. With every second that ticks, the victim is engulfed with unspeakable horror. There are many who have rip their eyes out to escape!
Like all tools of Power, he keeps them at arm’s length, such as calamity will allow. The world changes and stays the same for him, a constant gardener of history and experience. His vigil is one fated to end in darkness and then renewed in the World of Ideas. At the center of the Dusthermit’s study is a Sphere of such tremendous power that it’s true name is simply, Chaos. There is a poem that he uses to describe our world, and we all play a part in everything that is ever made. To some , the experience in the poem is called Life, as it is found in nature. To the Select, it’s called Perception Infinite; and they are the holders of Perceived Knowledge.
“So they, “ say the Traitors of spirit, “ have often said that the Gods bring forth lighting. We have made lighting and fire as well, our swords are our souls, that even in death, we may spit in the eye of the Void.” They laughed, as those who are fools with Power laugh, the Sphere is the result of such foolishness. The lair grows cold at the thought of such a hellish creation, where were the voices of reason back then? The hermit walks towards the relic, his simple earthen robe dragging across the sandy floor. His weary eyes still envision that civilization’s history clearly, when it’s retold to none and everyone.
"They gave themselves to darkness in the thousands that day, so many died for no better reason than to spite the unknown. How were they to know the Infinite’s response to such treason?" The words spoken from his lips ignite the writing on the walls. Each letter corresponds , in bright flashing blue light, along with his retelling.
"Across the tattered dreamscape of Perception, the victorious armies of mislead martyrs, tore the minds of millions within horrific nightmares! That cult was of course banished into the Void, where the darkness perfects them to this day, undying and perfect in it‘s evil." A gust of wind from nowhere and everywhere billows across the tomb like room.
“And what is evil? Is it another term for destruction or is it simply an action against order?”, he whispers to himself. The Window beckons as it always does, it calls to the aged man within him to just rest. Now safety away from Chaos’s reach he glances at the many faces and pictures the Window has to offer. Memories flood the dusthermit, taking him across the fourth dimension, to retouch on his past. He flies in that secret space of his soul, using it to converse with the unknown. The poem of paradise comes to his lips and it softly sings in the voices of his past,
In Paradox,
There are many rooms that vary in size
in those rooms there are characters,
Each carries themselves further inside
This mansion of many rooms.
The rooms are all different,
The rooms are unique.
Every character has their own room,
There are some in Paradox that help each other,
There are those who call it hell,
Others say it’s heaven.
There are also hunters,
One wears a golden mask.
If you die in Paradox you return to the world.
In the World,
You are a worker
Life is balanced and regulated.
Your character improves until you find your way,
Back into Paradox.
There are many rooms that vary in size
in those rooms there are characters,
Each carries themselves further inside
This mansion of many rooms.
The rooms are all different,
The rooms are unique.
Every character has their own room,
There are some in Paradox that help each other,
There are those who call it hell,
Others say it’s heaven.
There are also hunters,
One wears a golden mask.
If you die in Paradox you return to the world.
In the World,
You are a worker
Life is balanced and regulated.
Your character improves until you find your way,
Back into Paradox.
