Grave Buildings

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In a typical 21st century way, the end turned out to be the same: indistinct, deceptive, childish, silent, and unsatisfactory.

I fought with the stones of my home against the Other until, gradually, there were no stones left to hold me, to surround me, to bind me, to limit me, to separate me from the outside world. The chaotic thoughts within were left unbound, and my mind imploded until everything was nought.

I strayed. A homeland held me captive and my senses perceived faulty images which my reason could not decipher.

Tall, immense buildings with infinite little, cubed windows seemed as if they were springing down from the sky. No one walked on the streets as I drifted above the foggy smoke coming from the hot sewers. The buildings stood silent, like massive graves on top of each other, each cubed window a death, each death lost among all the others, and above the building, their common collective epitaph was projected: “Cast a cold eye on life, on death.”

I entered one of the graves, a rusty note on a piano played monotonously, dolefully. The hands of a clock on the wall rotated counter clockwise. Fish in an aquarium floated bloated on the surface. Even my most careful, silent steps invited an echo and a cloud of dust from the rug beneath me. The ashen walls were accentuated by the sharp contrast of horizontal black smudges. I walked past empty hallways and climbed silent stairs. On each floor I tried to open the closed worn-out doors, but none of them would yield.

I lost count of the floors, but I knew the way down would be as tiresome and dazzling, so I kept on going up, hoping to reach the rooftop, the highest point where the deathly rooms do not exist and the silence of the dead does not echo ominously. I reached a floor with just one door. The door had a portrait above it. I came closer and the portrait was drawn meticulously, but still it was indistinct.  The door yielded to my attempt and I walked in, resolute, without one doubt that what was behind the door was an answer, but nothing was on the other side except a stairway. I climbed until I reached the roof.

A bone-piercing chill welcomed me on the roof. I could see nothing but clouds which hid the other buildings and the world below from my eye. On the roof, where death did not lie, I also failed to find life; the clouds looked impotent and sterile. A soft delicate sound of thunder declared itself, and the clouds sang a hissing song.

Soon. Sooner. Celestial Sphere Asunder. Salam. Sights and skies and scrapers and sorrow; Saccharine and spice seen as sacrilege; Salam. Soft swallow of saline sardonicism. Suffer in silent cynicism and stride southward to Satan’s sphere.

I was left with no option but to jump. Freefall. The small cubed windows passed so quickly before my eyes and each window looked trivial, decomposing without the slightest trace of a struggle, of a past, of a memory; no one left to remember them or build upon them, these philistine grave-buildings.  And I, the one who was travelling south and fast towards inferno; I, the last one to say something, anything about them, would rather say nothing of the dead, for the dead have been made silent and meaningless.

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