|Frozen in Heaven|
Inspired by the lyrics of the Fear Factory song of the same name.
Why do I do this?
I don't think the question matters anymore. It is what I am, what I do. The role is the person, and neither can exist without the other. I know in the minds of the people there is no longer a distinction. They cannot imagine life without me, any more than the breath in their pale bodies.
Utopia. The word almost brings smile to my fragile, cracked lips. No conflict, no arguments. Everything you need provided, and why would you want anything? Hah! What changes the path of the boulder? What makes the oceans rise, the seasons come and go? Conflict. One competing against another.
So it comes to this. Imprisoned in world without a memory. What do we have to remember? Looking back, there is but a featureless expanse. No events mar its flawless surface. Sometimes I yearn to ripple that surface, wish I could cast a stone of anguish, terror, even anger into the eternal pond of history, but such are merely dreams.
That thought amuses me also. Humanity has always had those it called dreamers. Those who aspired to better things, who saw with imagination in preference to reality. Here around me is the culmination of their vision, a place where dreams have died. Unconcious, or am I concious? Again, the futility of the question overwhelms me.
Only I, of these here, these dark bodies floating in darkness of feeling, death of emotion, can recall life as it was. Vague, distant images that I nostalgically call my dreams. They are not, of course, but it's all I have left, and so I indulge myself. No one else will, after all. In dreams I see myself flying closer to the sun, and I'm climbing. Tried to touch the sun, but the brightness burned my eyes. Fell from the sky like a star.
Shaking my head, I proceed to the ornate granite balcony. It's covered in exquisitely carved shapes, writhing and intertwining amongst the balustrade. It's beautiful, but I no longer notice it. The thousands of times its image has impinged upon my retina have left me immune to wonder. I look out over my subjects, scurrying beneath me. For I am king here, and this is my realm. Even in a perfect society, human minds need a figurehead, a focal point. Our minds expect a superior, something to which we can dedicate ourselves.
Why should it not be me? I, after all, am the creator, also. I was the last of humanity's visionaries, and I it was who had the final, damning vision. Utopia. Heaven. The subconcious goal of humanity throughout it's existance. Finally, it could be made real.
I was enraptured, soaring mentally, borne aloft by the joy of a puzzle solved. The solution, blinding in its purity, it's completeness. Too late did I realise what grasping what I sought would do. A modern day Icarus, cast low by my arrogance, every other human following in my wake.
I try not to think of the number of souls I have cursed, the mass of life I snuffed out, leaving softly glowing embers. Were I one of them, I sometimes dare to contemplate, perhaps my burden would not be so large. Cut from the heart I am part of, who then can I look to?
Who does God worship?
I turn from the sight outside, and pace through my chambers. I am surrounded on all sides by infinite luxury that becomes refuse by it's sheer ubiquitity. I stop, suddenly in front of a mirror.
And I saw my own face, in the dark and lonliness. And I saw my own face, like a spark frozen in heaven.
(March 24th, 2003, 11:53 am)
the mind without challenge is a dead mind.
Like a short story you once lent me, hell is a place of no challenge, need or desire, devoid of stimulas, the human mind is in absolute torture. The ultimate hell.
Cool work B.
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