Evolutionary Darkness

Spirits! Why you like to take refuge within the sugary fetus thrown to the Leviathan from this fabulous black ink sea's shores? Don't get in the domains of those cemeteries. There, the spectres keep a jealous guard over the corpses in which in former ages the fire made to them the offering of passions. Beside, the black out that fell over their memories, needs bodies that times after times vomit the dust from which they are made. They are in a dire situation. The spaces revealed by the sun in the daydreams of the legendary forest—aren't cradle for newborns.

It's useless a tender hope for your three-dimensional's dreams, moreover, isn't blood that runs through those images piled in the mirror's subconscious. What do you feel now that you are next to my coffin while at the same time the emotions given off by the sorrowful wolf's howls, tear you apart? Perhaps you want to take a nap on its melody; with the hope that, once awake, got your physical bodies back. Which ones they might be? What they do? Are they sleepwalkers wandering through streets on which their footsteps get mix with the dogs'? Streets that don't take the trouble to make them stumble. Maybe, they've built up a quicksilver bridge as a way to cross where they could be seen. Surely, those bodies are happy without spirits that make them uneasy.

Spirits! You like to plunge in the asphalt's vapors. But it's useless, because your existences don't take part in any breath of life. The flesh is too busy leading its herd of worms toward the stockade. Spirits! What came over your lives that suddenly made the Limbo the best option. Of course, in there the air is purer. No wonder you fell asleep when arrived to its realm. You enjoyed the oblivion's shelter, but couldn't endure so much harmony and started to miss the hell of your bodies. But they don't remember you, and they won't. They've forgotten you because they too, are in their own limbo... They're the madmen's bodies!

Useless have been my efforts to find my image's reflections; they're buried in these ancient pupils that in former times cast their grim looks upon me, hiding the light from the souls that, with heavy hearts, gave up their stars.

  Everything in this park is made out of ivory, everything is lifeless. From the trees only the sap is flowing through the flowers' cracked petals —like a sneeze of dark sparks— searching for the spring that once more, brought it alive. But it's a pity that the spring itself is carved in ivory, like every being in this park.

  They're on the benches, at the foot of the trees —static along the endless paths. In the gardens and beside the fountains there are men and women indifferent to each other, just like the columns of an ancient temple devoted to gods forgotten by their own minds. Only their pupils show to be alive, but only darkness is reflected from them.

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?