The Beckon at the Gate

Within these last few moments of my short life, among the darkest voids of the night, I wish to write these ever present and fading thoughts. The desire flickering in the coldest regions of the primordial psyche to put freshly sharpened pencil lead to paper; telling all of nothing I can truly describe or recall.

It began with a fog, organic in nature but I know this only to be true within my mind and not by its strange glows and rings of neons and blacks. Encroaching within the marsh banks which bound my soul, a slow hum heralding the arrival–I could do nothing but wait in silence. Not from the whines and moans of beckoning from the black horizon but by its ever presence of always being, it was searching for me. No, it did not need to search for this was its domain. This fact I knew was what drew my feet forward–willingly, humble to it’s mercy as I sunk further from the inland. For what could I do to stop the inevitability of it all? Shadow encompassed my body from head to toe; it rolled over what little light there was and consumed everything it touched as if a wild, lush vine of grapes ready for the bottle.

It spoke to me in that moment. In that desolate wasteland of nothingness that lies between the waking and dreaming of two words, He stood–the gate between two dimensions not meant to be known was, in that moment, the only thing I could know. Words were spoken but not with sounds. Such things are foolish to presume from that which has no mouth. Such things are too foolish to the thought of a being which has no true being. Every fraction I drew breath in that dark place, I could only feel joy. This strange, alien joy that caused my heart to soar and my soul to rise atop nimbus clouds with the saints of old, was not my own. I knew this, not by the non-Euclidean bleached suns overhead but, by the absence of my own form. Digits of an incomprehensible width seeped from what was formally my left bicep; geometry that bends reality snapped with a mute echo whilst my essence conformed to His. I was changing. I required adapting to belong.

After such changes I could not bear to witness any further, whatever constituted as my eyelids then, shut and I awoke with a ghastly shout that seemed to shake the entire chamber. Now, I write, under bog colored moon, unable to forget but struggling to weave the horrid tapestry, if only to rid myself or gain what little comfort my off-kilter nerves require. I am a fool for wishing to remember. Truly, I am a fool for wishing to recall and share, for now I mustn’t sleep. For if I were to shut an eye from the waking, it will pull me back within its choking, loving embrace until it is finally my time once more.

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