The Day Before. (Undergoing Re-Writing as 01/11/22) (Sequences 1-4 finished)

Sequence Three.

Sequence Three.

I stand now before three large white pillars, standing tall. Are they above me, or below? From the darkness far behind them arises a light—showing many memories, they have come to fight.

Have they really come to fight me now? After all of this, what seems like days have gone by, they have passed. But now, they have come at last. A darkened past, one strewn down a wicked path of starkness, growing fast.

Terror—I can feel the tremors—they're tremendous. The emotions they wilt, dreading the people they have killed. They dying is real, endless—the decrepit deal. The one more time, the needed thrill. The plague it now passes, at last it lasts in it's final dying breath.

I find not the truth lie on the ground, but somewhere much more than anything profound. Written in dust, nothing near sound.

These pillars are just tombs, dust in the wind. These memories—just wombs for something hell-sent and hell-bent on finding my truth. The truth that I seek, forever weak. The same truth of which I cannot speak.

Wishfully wondering, sundering, pondering. Everything eventually evolves into everything. Is this time in which I speak? Harrowing, narrowing—making me weak? Speak means what again? I repeat.

The sun and the moon, they do not really exist. Just light and darkness is all it is. The stars—just light—and the Earth—the darkness where the lost and the doomed roam and hunt for the truth, as I do, and carry on. Speak. I cannot think. What does speak mean? Not again. I recede.

Hollow, shallow paths of weeping willows. Birds, sunken eyes, wishing of reap—cascading shadows. The valley it swallows, the birds they wallow. In them hides a dark secret, dying, swallowed. Different new trees are here—I think they dream. I follow.

You ask me to tell you what happened that gruesome night. You are just inside my head, aren't you? Like many things. Only I can tell you what happened that night—that tree—the fright, that horrible sight. But no, you're not ready yet. Go away, I tell myself and apparently you too. I will tell you a different day.

The ice melts in my mouth. Like that cloud, it washes away the dry water from the ocean I swam with it's salty ways and waves. I do not know why, I do not know how. Why ice, why? It melts and washes away this question that is questioning that night. The truth... it is not here to stay.