[The Wind and the sea of the dead, 553 words, Genre: Experimental]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
He had a wind about him. The boy did. A wind that blew up around his feet, catching light of the fire that enclosed in upon his soul. The wind blew, swirling around his feet as he stood there. There was a fire that burned with the essence of many a million burning embers. All caught up in the circumference of his eyes.
There was a million lives that he could have lived, would have lived, if he did not have the wind caught up in his soul. It entranced many. It would silently whisper along the streams of unconscious thought; the wind or the whispers of the dead.
Yes, it was true. The boy would talk to the dead. The dead were many. There was a vast ocean of them and they were all aloft, sedimentary in different unfolding layers. All of them lying beneath the sinking sandy shore, some of them floating in gaseous little bubbles. They would call out, scrambling with their claw like hands. Reaching out for something more. Attempting to grab at something, attempting to grasp something, that was otherwise seen as the unattainable.
Nobody looked twice at the boy as he created havoc inside the minds of different individuals. He was so callously inclined and bereft of any presumption about coincidental anecdotes and musings of other celestial states of mind. Briefly; he was unaware of what he was doing, what he was saying. He would simply act, unaware of what he was, in fact, doing.
That is the way of the wind, the way of the whisperings of the dead. There was very little that people could do about it. It simply was the way of the world. The simple task of reiterating information from the lips of those that were already asleep, those that were already dead.
He would travel from place to place. Gathering up a storm of dust behind him as he progressed to each new point. Each new point would offer something. Something more to be held in the palm of one’s hand. Something to be rolled around, caught up in the feelings of one’s fingertips. Whenever he came across a point or crossways in the road, he would stop and look upon it. Calculating it. Assuming its purpose.
Understanding that some things are worthy of being treasured and other things are more presumably discarded and thrown on the trash heap of life. That was the pile of dead bodies and they were piling up. Creating a great and equivocal heaping mass.
And slowly as the bodies piled up. The voices inside the boy’s soul would begin to grate upon one’s nerves. They would gather a monumental force and send him from one place to the next. For, he knew, if he did not have one place to go. He would be caught up in the tranquil bliss of nothingness. That tranquil bliss of nothing, that was nothing more than a sheet of darkness. That is where the dead wept. In amongst that darkness. Calling out for a second chance. But in the world of nothingness, there was nothing to be given. Nothing to be earned.
That is why the dead cry out the way they do. Creating a great wind in a silent sea of voices. Sending us this way and that.