Little Girls Pointing And Laughing

Keyholes are tampered with by pins and needles, poking prodding minds tracing secrets with their eager lobes. A worm crawls across the floor, scripting arcane gibberish in some secret gesture of omniscience, and a millennia of plagues flood the airwaves. Contrite lovers cradle their scotch-taped hearts in quiet arms, sat in puddles of their own design. A voice whispers lies to everyone and everything, so that the truth is lost forever, irretrievable in the kaleidoscope of layers.

In this mire, there wades alone, silent, lost, a semblance of desire. It presumes to be a beacon of hope, it dreams of absolution, it wades on and on and on and on. It senses fear from within, but it breeds determination in defiance of its shackles. It seeks answers to questions that have not been asked, it dares to question enigmas without a code to its anticode. It only exists to tear down piece from piece, from protons to mesons, from mesons to quarks, from quarks to accelerons.

And so it presumes to have the key to decrypt the greatest nothing. Milling wannabes wear off at its approach, sensing with great trepidation the onset of a cataclysm beyond control. But defiance has set in motion a force that will not be tempered with fear of reproach. No. Purpose is precise. Determination is devout. There can not be allowed to exist even a shadow of doubt.

A shriek of ancient metal as virgin gears grind in anxious intolerance, with a thousand witnesses to verify the humiliation of the sacrosanct. This is the moment, this moment that has come upon one and all; dazzled, deranged, and despondent, it matters not. They all bear witness to the terrifying truth: the tempest is no longer bound.

But the terror does not stop there. This unfettered indescribable despair needs no keyhole, it requires no shame, it begs not answers of questions that we know or do not know. There is no awakening. There is no enlightenment, no curiosity to be sated, no wisdom to impart. There are no sounds to express the empty warmth of a starving void, there is no acknowledgement that would serve to ameloriate the disquiet extending feelers into open spaces, gracious and warm in their welcome. There is no great mystery, no redemption, no sight to behold.

There is only eternal light in neverending darkness.