A heavy stillness spreads over the depths of the lake, silencing all voices and crushing even the greatest of strengths, until every movement is suppressed. Time has turned the liquid mass into stone. Each insignificant raindrop raises the pressure higher and freezes water atoms to the electrons. Down there lies an eternal world of numbness, which used to follow what seemed to be inescapable gravity rules. The amber’s aeon taught deep black waters how to shelter and hide energy. They could become deep black powers, if only they knew a dam was holding them tight. That concrete was tying them down. Eternity is proved wrong as the clouds release one drop too many, and cracks on the sea wall appear like unexpected springs. The black hole’s depths scatter themselves through enlightened valleys, giving birth to the unknown.
Then movement and commotion took life so easily. Reckless streams and confused currents erased the last standing blocks. Ages of silence, pressure and darkness seemed forsaken, clearing the place for a fluent colonization. Upstream, the river is growing, and it’s flooding History with elusive events and shifting uproar. A lake is spreading on the lowest territories, turning all solid matter into cloudy water. What’s left of the air is thickening and the whole world’s chemistry is mutating. Clarity disappears, while dampness and fog pass through lives like sharpened bullets. All possible states of water share the space between earth and the sky. Getting a grip, making sense, seeing some truth through the events of time, have become mere dreams of a past civilization. Now, a boundless tide is running through each corner of earth and confusion displaces lucidity. Underneath the streams, the marks of deadly empires continue crawling unseen. The threats of the old, dry and weathered world are still here, they have simply become even more unreachable, beneath the new layers of shifty waters. If only the water flow was revealing the shapes of hidden jailers instead of entwining space, time and matter. They would be weapons, showing up sunk ruins and digging up the rubble that the world’s still living in.
Flooded Lives in search of a grip on their destiny had to find something substantial. But destiny itself died out and the quest quickly began to wander. Scattered amongst swamps, Obduracy showed the roots’ path, but the roots got thinner and thinner, until the roots and soil melted into each other. Then Hope pointed skyward, as if exits were waiting up there. But the clouds got thicker and thicker, until nothing was left under, but a boundless mist. Beyond the sky’s limits, fog spilled all over the stars’ cover, putting out their fire. The last word came from Pride, who decided to take the earthly path despite the lack of horizon and steady substance. Lives became surrounded by bleak forests growing darker than ever, disrupting the already troubled guidance. Then the ground collapsed, and Pride sunk into deep-sea trenches. Lives coiled themselves around the senseless vacuum growing inside. Meanwhile, inner wildness vanished.
Nature was once made of woods and solid Lives, now it’s all waters and streams. It may have been just a concept after all. Yet, there is no choice either, the surroundings are established as the unavoidable circumstances of all kinds of Lives. Then Lives themselves become each other’s unavoidable circumstances. The simplest thing always slips through while lives try to keep a hold over it. Grounded habits fade, making room for randomness. Old beliefs were the product of their time. Now it’s time for doubt, as the only remaining certainty. Lives arch their backs to cope with an erased past, a blurred future and an unacceptable present. Water runs through all kind of veins and minds as real blood and thoughts. There is no choice but to cope with it. The fluid underworld totally alters consciousness, erasing the feeling of existence. This is how Lives get used to the endless unsettlement.
Lifetime goes adrift and the current plays with it, all along its untameable path. Whatever was in control before, now becomes the ocean’s toy. Lives cannot dwell anywhere, only their absence is noticeable. The real landlords are the unpredictable surges coming from the tidal disorder. A remote sensation of Melancholy is carried by the streams. The way it takes is untraceable. Reason, patterns and purposes all gave up, but Madness still takes its time to show up. In between, a state of dereliction leads a world of leeway. The prolific source isn’t only releasing waters, it’s freeing all kinds of strained things that used to obey to a violent and exacting order. Melancholy stands firmly against Dementia as among the flood and the perpetual drift, hides a pure delight, shy and unworldly.
The water source is inexhaustible, as if the black hole was an infinite spring of disturbances. Left without a choice, after a bottomless drowning, lives are pending on the verge of Insanity. They started to claim we are the waters, we are the floods, the fog and the frost. Control is lost once and for all and Insanity is where Lives dwell now. But since the boundary between sane and insane is a matter of era, morals can be limitlessly reset. From now on, Waters are everything, Lives are everything. The flows are embodied in the midst of a wayward history with no timeline. The shirking soil and random streams shocks are all alive, squeezing time, until the juice all flows out, bending time since space blacks out. Liquid bodies and ethereal consciousnesses are screaming We are the waters, we are the floods, the fog and the frost, and so the old jailers have gone away.
While they accept to dissolve in the flows and bow down to the forces of nature, Lives are, in the meantime, secretly making a new start. Soon water particles come together and arise out of the mires, shaping separate bodies. Plain and single entities seem to be drifting above the quagmires. Expectations are high as the liquefied world brings with it dreams of evenness. Old jailers have been fully merged into the same stormy bath as all lives. Dreams of blank slates have never been so close to coming true. Yet it took a still but unavoidable time, like the fall of a dead leaf, for several bodies to form clusters, and for clusters to become institutions. A civilization is hatching out of the flood, clearing the fog and melting the frost. So far, nobody has been forced to act like a jailer. But still the question remains: how did new jailers arise so quickly from nothing and nowhere?
If souls can dwell in real bodies, then laws, beliefs and certainties might spread in between them. Walls appear physically and mentally after such a long time, a time emptied of its landmarks. Walls made out of steel and fear are being raised all over a drying land that was supposedly doomed to a damp and green chaos. Instead of a wild and blooming splendor, this land got designs, thoughts, strategies, from the forces of a dry reason. Lives are slowing down their pace, and soon their bodies will be shaped equally. A few of them realise a window of potential and elation is being closed by the magnetic strengths of sociability. Their insurrection, this fabric of air, feathers and thirsty fires, is randomly poping up like mushrooms of flames. A spur party, an ephemeral bliss, finally buried by tons of dry and cold sand coming from stringent skies. Then, after all the flames have been thoroughly choked, a last light is feeding the skins, for the very last time, through the bars of a shadowing civilization, before the sun definitely dies out.
Once the lights of life had completely faded, builders, workers, lawyers and jailers threw their plans on the ground and turned them into concrete in the blink of an eye. No resistance was shown as it would have required the glimmers of the infinite, the wobbly starlights from the inner cores, long gone by then. The lifetime is being divided thou by thou, until each move equals a century. Hundreds of water cycles from frost to fog would not be enough to catch a single breath of rarefied air. Something, from nothing and nowhere, is swallowing time and turning oxygen into dust. Lives put themselves in a coma, a steady rest. It seems that institutions can grow out of lives and forsake them right after their walls are firmly grounded. If every sparkling desire and twinkling memory has fallen into such a deep sleep, something might still be feeding them from underneath. Something viral got inside the lives’ core drives. That’s why it all started once all needs were met, it all started with a casual success.
Consciousness is turning in a loop while bodies freeze. Thoughts are spreading through the bones, ligaments and tendons, where the blood is scarce and the frost weak. Thoughts are raving, wild and confused. They’re trapped in frozen corpses, which makes them delusional and eager.
To them the meaning is lost and it always has been. Enemies got inside, where they’ve always been. Hordes of greedy allies and inner monsters grow, when all tracks disappear. Still patterns still, on battlefields without purpose. Unmoved in trench warfare, self-assigned at war without order. No tyrant, no bond, no border. Enemies got inside, they got inside. The war’s never been so real, targets are haunting.
Lives taking out their own, to avoid the jails of the eternal now, would be the last option left if only moving was allowed. Now is the time of none. Now is a reign under which no shelter can be found, sentencing life with an infinite inner runaway. Thoughts are exploring the lack of boundaries, experiencing a lucid drift with neither past nor future. Loops and patterns never surrender, besides, they can’t be remembered since time collapsed. Insane thoughts feel the need for rest and resting lives the need for insanity. Nonetheless, movement is still stuck and quietness is colonizing every atom around. Thoughts are condemned to a world of steadiness while a mad rage consumes them. Soon they’ll find a hidden path amongst illusions, delirious patterns and elusive exits. Now will soon be a memory and the eternal jail makes little failures imaginable.
From the outside, nothing could be more normal. The world seems so quiet now, it got frozen, somehow. But among the unexpected lack of sense and boredom, through the filthy breaches of social standards, beneath the crust of silence and peace, a muted war is crawling. A muted war is blowing. It would be such a relief to finally mourn this old dying world, once and for all, as thoughts are ready to be part of something bigger than inner drifts. They start to remember and see horizons, even if the world is perfectly stalled by the weight of its civilization and the height of its walls. Moreover, a thick dam contains particles, scattered and dismembered for the sake of a deep, black and undaunted stillness. Cracks are expected but lives are still unable to shiver. The vibrations of thoughts and dreams are growing inside a totally frozen ocean of potential lives. Movement is being held as eternity reigns. Fantasies are blooming within the old remains of lives rambling under tons of promising waters turned into solid and lifeless matter.