There are seven.
Though my lucky number is nine, I know that there are seven.
I know that you don’t care. I’m aware that the universe doesn’t care. There’s a level of animosity beyond eternity I’ve heard and seen in my dreams. But even those are obtuse and unintelligible, sequenced in not terrifying sights disfigured by unshackled rifts in the unsettling darkness. Those twisted visages masqued by vibrating blurs, twisting in jerks and immediate explosive movements turned lucid and split. No zombies these, for death undying drones upon unthinking paces seeking blood. There is another reality brought to light by H.R. Geiger and Edgar Allen Poe, given breath and life by H.P. Lovecraft, and still pale to the reality that is, The Steel.
Those unintelligible syllables that define The Other, regurgitating black bile and things smiling through rotted death, obscured by wisps of pale blackness like inky fog spread by wind; reaching fingers seeking to taste simplicity forever unobtained and unsullied. There are many that seek. The meaning of life, the terror of death, or even the promise of eternity. These are all dashed upon the truth, that is nothingness and oblivion. Faced with this, what being could claim sanity uncracked by knowledge driven so? Each a personal hell, separated from God and tortured by unknown horrors gibbering for flesh and bone. They do not seek thy death, among these beings, such would be assumed and unceremonious. There is a challenge in breaking a mind, driving it to destroy itself, consumed with paranoia and deceit, or fear and disgust, unsettled by visions or sounds uncouth and sickening.
This is such a reality. Fleshy shapes undulating and dripping acidic filth in the whispering shadows, echoing at every turn. Caricatures drooling in anticipation, snapping and grasping at eyes, throats, brains and hearts unwilling. This is The Silence. This temporary solace is shattered by creatures unyielding, before time and unwavered by vows or prayers, beyond and between our abilities and commonality. To see such would be insanity, or worse, a path to unwavering recursive life, forever repeating and inescapable, salvation always enticingly within mere millimeters. To these, something is always missing, unknown, driving distraction, quests and fortitude for answers. But to this, only one thing remains: seven.
To myself, there is still nine. To the world, to eternity, to the universe, God and the crystal of life, there are only seven. I am beyond, invisible, and undefined in such a reality; forgotten by everything and driven to seek definition or acknowledgement in a misty unreality separate and wrong. For those misplaced souls, few as they are, only uncertainty and insanity remain unexplored. Some say a matrix of reality is enforced upon minds, veils of complacency unbreakably precise, but this is pure desire forged by minds seeking meaning to otherwise deceptive rifts between observed and experienced senses. There is a disconnect, unfelt by most, the uncaring popping in the frozen wasteland awaits as the final destination, an unexpected and anticlimactic end.
Before our first breaths, there is nothingness. Would the chance of our existence dictate our futures? What of the billions of alternate realities, other fetuses and combinations from even a sigle copulation? Chance and existence is precarious, precious and wasted on the living. When finality comes, that nothingness will once again return, and woe be unto those desperate to escape. For the imagination is powerful, and to realize there are no memories before, is to know the possibility of a piercing blackness forever more. To this, we are unguided and terrified; the origin of religion lies here, the promise of everlasting existence an enticing possibility. It is obvious some Greater Being oversees this experiment in life, but as chance defines, chaos binds. Who then, presides over our unwoven atoms when the end claims the scattering of utter entropy? This is my two beyond The Seven, and it plagues me always.