This world — the more of it I see, the more alien it feels. Rules I once thought unchangeable the blues of the sky, the whites of the sun they don't work right anymore.
Above, chromatic fractals of gradient auburn blurs through the once-dulled sky, drifting and shimmering. Their dynamic rhythm marches to the pace of our travel, following us as if self aware.
Their radiance sharpens against the ashen plain stretching toward the smoking horizon, where gilded flecks of sparkling light spray forth—red and burning hot; sealing the cuts of skyward fissure, briefly melding them into a new ephemeral form, that then grows increasingly certain.
That is my new morning sky.
Under the skyline, out from the end of the canyon ahead and seen through the two stone sides, lies a mountain. This mountain, unaware of our approach, slowly stands up.
With heavy motion and aching joints, it basks under the gibbous sunlight.
He is a lonely being, this mountain—stranded in the desolation of solitude. He remains a gleaming edifice, holding the sun between his very fingertips. He strains to catch our gaze with this wanton display of grandeur, as though searching for companionship, for intimacy—yet forever bound within his natural cage. His love remains unrequited. Permanently.
The closer we approach, the more that I see.
The point of convergence between three canyons. Surrounded on all sides by walls of speckled stone, he is both guarded and confined within this special place he calls home.
From his face spill streams of tearful deltas, unburdened in their sorrowful motion; they weather through stone and sediment alike in crooked relief, percolating outward into the surrounding great plains.
And in this hidden grove, he tends to his secret garden; nurturing life itself: vivid, blossoming and wild creatures of both flora and fauna thrive in ultimate defiance of his unceasing lament. Here, in this cradle of rock, stone, and sunlight, he cultivates beauty as a balm for his eternal promise—to a futile love. Singular. Alone.
I shift my gaze to Jimson's body, still tied to Cindy ahead.
You never mentioned that such peace could exist in this world, Jim.
The corpse stays dead.
"I won't forget your omission of these critical details. Burying you here—is this what you wanted? Your presence souring this moment for the rest of us." I pause.
"You truly were vicious, old friend."
". . ."
"Can't call you that now, can I? 'New friend' takes the levity out of our bonding. What you did when I was at my wit's end..." I swallow.
"Cherished companion?"
"! ! !"
"Too much then, how about Partner?"
". . ."
No disagreements, I can work with that.
A gust of air drags past, sweeping leaves and bits of debris into a slow whirl around us, tangling in the nested shag of the yonks hair.
"Who are you talking to?"
I jolt. Tim is staring right at me with worry etched across his facial features.
"Myself," I say quickly. "Just... thinking out loud."
His eyes flick to his father's body, then back to me. He doesn't press further. He turns to look forward again nodding.
His silence stings.
From this an itch from earlier blooms once again digging into my back.
I twist awkward, hunting for urgent relief with my ragged nails for a spot I can't quite reach.
Scratching around it I finally find a fleeting, private moment of agitated release.
The temporary relief is short-lived; the lingering itch soon returns, restoring my uneasiness even as I collect my thoughts.
"Was it justified?" I mutter to Jimson's corpse. "Killing the dog. Was that too far?"
". . ."
I was volatile. Out of reality at the moment of your passing. But his life was in jeopardy—I won't pretend it wasn't.
Ahead, Tim shifts in his saddle, reaching forward to adjust his father's body with careful hands. He is gentle. Reverent.
I look away with burning cheeks.
"In my old world," I continue talking at his corpse, "my actions would be unconscionable. What was right seemed obvious then. But now..."
Am I accountable by the same standards in this life? Does my reincarnation prove there's a god—one I've just renounced?
Stupid. Not the smartest tool in the shed, am I?
No, it doesn't matter, that being is not worthy of my further mentioning, I suffered too much at their hands. Beg for all my attention, you ain't never gonna get it again. You've earned the silent treatment for putting me through that.
"? ? ?"
We pass a formation of stones—roughly circular, like a well.
My chest tightens.
"Life happened, alright," I whisper. "One moment I was instructing villagers how to build a well. The next—ffft. Bag over your head."
"! ! !"
"New places. Foreign languages. Then the hunger. The dark. The endless days fighting rats for their nightly share."
The stones disappear behind us. My hands and forearms shake while gripping on Samuel's reins.
"? ? ?"
No, not the same rats you are familiar with, but even smaller and more pest-like. Like hamsters, do they exist here?
Anyways, that's besides the point and I don't feel quite comfortable talking about it alright.
". . ."
Fine but I won't make a habit of repeating myself.
Through this capture of mine my life changed; it shifted my priorities and unveiled some of the fundamentals to me, about my reality that I never really knew of, or really wanted to know about.
From my own eyes I saw how the weak were kept under foot constantly being dominated; this was the reality even in my so-called moral world, that was a fundamental, but often hidden uncomfortable truth.
No one will admit how it's sinful to be weak.
Not because you'll supposedly go to hell and be punished for it when you die, but because in life you'll be taken advantage of, and trodden on so hard and so much that it will feel exactly like you were there yourself.
In that sense it's the inevitable outcome of the situation, one in which you get so beat-down and dehumanised you eventually accept the idea of your own inferiority. Whether it is an individual or a group, the words and justifications may change in scale but the motive always remains the same.
Power.
My fingers dig into Samuel's fur.
That is what my current ideology is cynical about.
"? ? ?"
No it's not all bad, it just means you have to take responsibility over yourself and your fortitude. Resilience.
Sometimes you just have to take the initiative for your own growth, persist forward and forge your own meaning that aligns with your circumstances.
Life's meaning is a climb only you can do for yourself, even if it costs your life.
"! ! !"
It is exactly as you say—emotionally cumbersome. You see right through me as the helpless, hypocritical fool I am, don't you? It's as if you're inside my head right now, reading every thought as it takes shape.
Yes, I am a struggling empathetic; one who longs for the comfort of apathy, but lives and breathes anxiety, worrying about things I know I shouldn't be.
However, it's so a part of my fragile ego, that if you removed that version of me from the equation, still, nothing will ever add up the same.
It's scary, the mindset imprinted on me, I know. Erase it, change it all how I want but without it, I know I would never be quite the same.
So here I stand here. Suffocating. A shining contradiction to my crooked beliefs, unable to change either of these two repulsive things that I define myself by. I'm so immersed in this narcissistic self-image of meaning that even the world will be standing in my self-reflection.
I'm just so fucking "̷̗̔.̴̰͝.̶̹̐.̷̰̎"̷̗̔.
I lean forward, my fingers petting the fur and warmth provided beneath me. My back curls as I position my head onto the yonk's spine, using it as a pillow for my head.
The surrounding wind picks up again, releasing a long, whistling cry as it rushes past. Smells of fresh pollen and humid streams carry the allure of spring alongside the various bugs that come with it; buzzing and biting at the back of my neck.
". . ."
What did you expect from me. I was different back then. The kind of man who'd give away his last meal—bread, butter and fish to others, eating only the crust myself. There were children there too, where we were held. Out of principle I chose to starve, convinced that dying with honor, with purpose actually meant something real.
Then it happened, the people who begged for my various scraps got themselves killed anyway—wasting all the love and kindness I had left to give.
>:(
It is a true story, I swear it, on your son's life I would never lie about myself to myself.
"! ! !"
I know I said I wouldn't elaborate before, but sometimes it's nice to get something off your chest, alright!
:<
I'm a walking contradiction, no, life is a walking contradiction and I merely imitate the natural order I see to come to my conclusions.
Life is a cruel duality. I've noticed, I've seen it, how it builds you up—gives you beliefs and priorities that seem rightly just and acceptable.
Even your own morality is tested; you change it, adapting to new experiences until you're stripped down to your spiritual core.
You think you've become a better person, someone who can finally manage their life—and then it strikes you down harder than ever before.
Life is an unexpected reality that exposes your true vulnerabilities. Burying you so deep in the garden that even the golden virtue of compassion feels like a crippling debt—every gesture of care becomes a new withdrawal you can no longer afford.
In that degrading cycle, I was nothing more than a small dollar coin, passed from hand to hand, my face value eroding until I was given away for what little worth I had left. Only then did I notice how far I had really fallen.
From thisI've come to realise that society and culture itself is the closest thing to enlightenment you can get, for it is the thing that we ultimately live and breathe in.
Unfortunately it runs like an ATM—assigning value, dispensing validation, swallowing souls when the balance runs dry. A perpetual state of spiritual recession, dragging along the spectacle for those who still believe the legitimacy of the transaction.
The generous become morally bankrupt first. The takers hoard what they take until they burst. Mistaking accumulation for wholeness, power for meaning. Hollow, yet undeniably convicted to the idea of their own personal satiety.
Both circulate the same counterfeit of denominated meaning, just enough to keep the beast itself barely alive.
:<
I'm rambling again.
". . ."
You're right. The world's sad, not me.
"???"
You want a takeaway from all this? Well I never really thought about that before. I guess there are two points. First: don't just conform to ideas you don't fully understand. Second: don't take for granted what others provide—bread, fish, or whatever else. If you know you're going to waste it, don't bother. Take only what you truly need. No more, no less. And the most important rule, live for yourself, not for others nor your desires.
:o
You seem surprised that it is so simple and effective. Why? Can't a man just be a petty bitch-face and wise all in the same breath. just for a moment. Huh.
"..."
What.
"! ! !"
That's just the trauma speaking, well you're not wrong. Ok. I admit it. But why is this thinking incorrect, please explain it to me in terms I can understand.
"#### ### ###### ####"
No, sorry I should've explained it better to you. You didn't need to swear for me to understand what you were saying.
"??!"
"Kindness and empathy!" Ptooey. I spit to the side.
"Of course I'd prefer that treatment. But the rules of engagement are so very clear. If I doubt the other party will reciprocate—even for the smallest thing—how am I supposed to trust them with my life?"
This is just the prisoner's dilemma in action. A shame, really, that the best and most obvious outcome is almost always the rarest to occur, even when both sides should know better.
Tim glances back again. His expression is unreadable.
Never mind, you wouldn't get it anyway.
I shut my mouth.
Ahead, Cindy's pace slows, easing until Samuel follows suit.
Then we stop.
For some reason.
I take in the scenery — that distant, poetic grandeur now is standing before me, unabashed and perfectly nude.
Now of all times… go back, shoo, shoo.
It stands still, stiff, awkwardly erect as if in deep contemplation of the world's mortal affairs.
If I try to hide it and accidentally touch it, does that make me gay?
Not that it's wrong, but… this body wasn't originally mine.
So whose erection is it, really?
If we both felt it — whose erection would it be?
I glance around.
Good — no one's watching.
I lift my pants, guiding the stubborn thing with the back of my hand, tucking it neatly beneath the top.
A red little head — like a sausage dog begging for affection still peeks through up at me.
No. That won't do. Down boy.
I fold my shirt over, tighten and readjusting the drawstring.
There.
Am I a professional or what?
For a moment, I admire the result of my effort.
Then I look up again, two curious pupils glare back at me growing in confusion.
My cheeks burn.
I turn away, rubbing my face, pretending to brush away fluff at my un-groomed mustache. Then I place my hand underneath my chin and slowly begin nodding to myself.
That was too close.
After a few minutes of going through these calculated diversions, the nervous current gradually fades, and my peace of mind returns.
We've finally arrived.
The end of my travels, the edge of my exhaustion.
Ahead lies our destination — a prairie of bejeweled splendor waiting to be claimed.
A home.
My home.
"We made it," Tim breathes quietly.
"Dad... we made it."
I watch him slide down Cindy's back, legs unsteady when landing rough.
He approaches the body with loving hands, beginning to untie his father from the yonk.
My shadow twitches.
Yes, you too, old friend. You were silent when I needed you most.
My shadow trembles.
Can't take a joke?