Evolutionary Darkness

I'm close to accomplish it! The only shelter for the ink is my own shadow. Is the only place whose existence depends on it. The rest of my being is burning with the energy that comes from the bones, the flesh, the muscles, the skin and all that build up a human being. With a bit of luck, the next vignette will be at night, and by then, surely I'll be at sight of my supreme goal—become a citizen of the third dimension... ¡A man! That would be the climax of my essence, which evolve from paper and ink till the sweet prize of a body that can sweat, catch a cold and have a headache—that can experience an orgasm... For everything started because of her.

  That far afternoon, she expanded my universe by creating a destiny for my insipid soul made up of pencil's coal's prints; unfortunately, mixed from the very beginning with a strong feeling, a wretched union of inner radioactive impulses and Chinese's ink. They announced me with cursed echoes, the first gear acquired by me in my mad course toward a human existence: the obsession.

  There are some gears in the affective and psychic mechanical of humans, that make me regret —till the point of try to get myself  blurred— to have the desire of become one of them. The illusion, the enthusiasm are, for instance, some of those gears. I made a mistake. It's not true my near future success. I almost forget —forgetfulness is other of the gear that drive away my ancient envy for humans—, that a lot of things have changed since I knew her. Some freak-minded being, got the idea to take my comic story into the TV: a cartoons series. Children watching me, fighting with their parents; and the parents by their part calling me names; charging me with the accusation that their sons no longer want to study or ate, lost themselves, as they were, in the maze of my heroic deeds; children very influenced by me, cursing their parents and the school, while yelling at the same time: "No mother, I don't want to study, I only want to see the knight Glowfix. He got superpowers that my teacher doesn't have, beside, he doesn't punish me; he protect the planet from the archenemies, The Vaporous Dragons, that feed themselves with maidens, jewels and children."

Again, I'm walking somnambulist through the dream; again I've slid through the gateway of the ancient myths. Walk along with the blinded memories of time, without understand neither the absence of fatigue nor the infinite path through which I've walked in this wilderness imagined by another being. 

 At last, in a moment came out from the eternity's childhood, what I believed was a mirage, redeemer and stimulant, amid all this nothingness, turned out to be an apparition that populated with horrible figures the reigning desolation.

 It's a gigantic pendulum, its sphere got inlaid the eye of a Cyclops. I've interrupted its distant dream; its eyelids, closed by thousand of years, lift themselves up slowly, and set my being on fire with their ardent and prophetic glare. In the very moment in which the huge eye gets rid of the iron veil that blinded its terrible gaze, the pendulum starts its hypnotic oscillation. The fire-like gleams, casting down by its iron armor, threaten with the evocation of gloomy ages within the halls of my rapture.

 There, in the hunger meadow where the bones become greenish once more after an intense fever, you'll find the Guest's tomb.

  You'll find two footprints carved in the smooth grey dust: they're his. The unchangeable dust is the last effort of his physical matter to hold his captive soul in the vacuum of the footprints. The soul has tried for thousands of years to free itself—but it'll be impossible, as long as the dust sticks itself to the dark glories of a poisoned past. In that same place, collapsed down the Guest —dazzled by the dead. The decay of the body slowly immortalized the direction and place of his last two footprints.

  There, the dust to which he came back has become a terrible sentinel whose mission is watch carefully his soul, so it can't move forward or backward a single footstep —not even with the sickly winds against which he engaged in battle in former ages. Where was the Guest coming from in that occasion? Where was he heading for?... Who was him?

 Floating like a cloud of venomous gas, suspended in a point of infinite density by the spasms of terror. Buried under the threshold of the breath of an apocalypse sent by the cosmic laws. I envy the dark metaphors that will be conceived by the artificial inspiration of the cyberorganic poets in the last intelligent civilizations. Here, only millions and millions of parallel universes within bubbles of bile. A bleak face of the vacuum, sweating a purple loaded with a primitive rage. It blinds the souls, while it bleeds itself in the spirals formed by the dying stars. Millions of destinies connected by dreamy wormholes, through which travel the compatible selfishness of similar dimensions.

  Suddenly, each one of my conscience's sensations splits in many images that stretch out to become infinite quantum tunnels—dreams in different stages of evolution! That light isn't external, it comes from them. Weird, crystal beings show themselves up before me, with bloody hues shining like a hemorrhage of light. They are falling from their huge, crystal spaceship shaped like a cube. They want to scape; they're looking for help. Hurry up! Crystal creatures with a sand's past; come on!—free yourselves through each one of my thoughts; reach the freedom of my madness' universe.

  I left behind me the space, bored because all the expansion. My back behold millions of galaxies exhaling puffs of burning plasma; the black holes swallow everything that once were manifested with animal, plant or mineral form— wedded with the stellar matter. The universe is homesick, its return to the childhood will allow it to get into a new cosmic topography—a return to the paradise... for it. For the energetic consciences that fought so hard under myriads of life forms, it's only a gateway to the panic. All individual energy flees; howling cries that exploit in flashes of acid light. They crash each other in the confusion of their auras—the background radiation increase, thanks to the rage and the impotence!... Disintegration is just around the corner.

  It happened in a deep night forsaken by the moon and gnawed by a swarm of demonic purple stars. With a shudder, my soul felt the wandering breath of the abyss —it woke it up from the dream in my body's tomb.

  Which's the destiny it's heading toward on the wings of the Night Gaunts?

  They drown it, with strikes of shivers, in the universes buried under the archetype essence of H. P. Lovecraft.

  Such universes are placed in the very core of splendors dropping from macabre visions, and marvels that oxidize the time's bones, just before dying in Azathoth's arms. My soul is bound to wander covered by the shroud of a heavy mist through the infinite spirals of this paradise, populated with fears, awesomeness and fascination.

  Lovecraft, my soul is kneeled before your paradise's gates; command  Yog-Sothoth to bridge the abyss that yawns between it and your imagination with the carcass of an ancient dimension. It's getting impatience! Its shrieking darkness is sighing!... Because in your Eden it wants to dwell.