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Absurdity (400)
It is twelve steps from the gaping door, hanging off one hinge, reluctant in its very existence, to a shadowed stairwell. Or so said a note, written on crumpled paper clutched nervously in fingers white from cold. The darkness awaited. A wind blew; hair rustled.
Falling in front of his own eyes, his hair to him a surprise; shocked white, thin, draped longer than ever it was. He raised his hand to touch it, to feel the evident change. Yet more was experienced, now a depth of which he had long been bereft; a welcome return of conscious lucidity. And in this, he realized much, much of importance, much of trivial nature. But that of import was above the rest, a gap hinted at, then dissipating into a smothering nothingness. It was therein noticed, however briefly, an absurdity; and so he moved forward.
Steps slow, soft, echoing lightly in the oppressive weight of silence, and the surroundings revealed themselves to him, each offering a secret, a hidden depth of its own nature, much as life reveals itself as it is lived. A rotten change, perhaps a dystopian sigh, particularly if these were to be his surroundings for what now remained of his life. Of what aspect of life now remained. A crumbling wall to his left, insulation spilling forth in vomited pinkness; to his right, the wall intact, yet wet, at once crying and pissing, relieving itself at two opposite ends of the spectrum, occasionally joined in awkward agony. The door behind him required no more than a passing glance, a split second of thought in a shocked shift; a shadowed stairwell, the few steps visible before being swallowed by the dark rotted and uneven. And yet he inextricably found them.
His first foot upon the first step; it creaked, and a response came from the darkness, a dull cough, as if expected. As it should be. And as his foot touched the next step, his thoughts touched upon something, a gap. A gap in the stairs, a gap in the world - a hole leading to nothingness. Without knowing if there could be a bridge to this gap, he merely stepped across, unsure, but uncaring. The absurd man, epitomized as he fights against the urge to lay back; he denies the gap, knowing it, and knowing what he can. What he can. Only that, for the absurd accounts for all else. He steps across, and finds himself ensorcelled in an exacerbated darkness.
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"What see you in the horizon's bruised smear
That cannot be blotted out
By your raised hand?"
The Bridgeburners
Toc The Younger
Critique my writing, and I will gladly critique yours. Hell, half the time I'll critique your writing anyways.
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