“Marvel and behold, a thousand hands reaching in an infernal agony toward the darkened skies.” – C.D
In the early time of the second of July, with the morning stiff from its own coldness of air, all humans woke up from a deafening sound of certain vehicles, as if there are millions of seals trapped inside their rectangular backs. They went to a singular direction, always heading east from my direction facing north. Rolling in a steady hastened pace. The speed exceeding their usual and if there be reality upon my imaginings, a fire will then ignite from the very path their wheels have passed. At such incongruity, I felt a different air of sudden worry. Though worry it is, this sense didn’t satiate the demands of my nerves to actually “worry” me in a restless sense. Perhaps the explanation for this event is my being too occupied of thoughts inaccessible to the normal mind.
Nevertheless, I am forced to somehow, stick my eyes out and arrest for my self the chaos enjoyed by everyone. That, I fear, is not a sarcasm for the wicked but an eye-opener for the reality ignored and cheered by the reveller upon disaster. Of course, I am not to play saint in this scenario for the wine is already poured in my glass, my hand only an inch away from being raised to satisfaction as I behold before me the spectacle of a thousand hands. Envy became I as I watch them transcend and wave as if dancing in the rhythm of the wind divested of care and impossibilities. Their breaths puffing out in a dotage tincture— this, too, rose high up and shrouded them like a roof made of heavy clouds— but without any exhaustion present in their wake. A thought haunted me then, painting into me the illusion of those hands being immortal— or dead if I am to consider the possibility of things. But in the far edge corner of my mind, there it lies, the very voice telling me that it is nought but a sudden gale to be extinguished by another of its opposite kind. And that is a fact to be known by all carrying interest upon the matter subjected. I may as well add that it is but another reason why the wine I hold is spilt to waste.
Time was already drained the moment those warriors came to act upon the situation. I can see, that, everyone is bothered—perhaps, irritated is the term appropriate at times such as this— by this spectacle. And that is not a very pleasant feeling for someone to endure. So much that the very moment the warriors started to shoot their transparent arrows made of water to the bloodied arms, now waving in agony as they witness their kin’s fall, rejoice exploded from the very atmosphere around me. The war ended only at the sun’s anger, leaving nought but rising souls in the colour of grey— almost dark even— to only disappear without having to reach the doors of the afterlife, and tired mortals with their faces red and possessed with sweat washing the remains of the dead from it.
Obscure became the houses where such act of liberty took place, burnt and is but reduced to coal and ashes lying on the damp ground. The ghosts of every memory before it yet lives to tell the tales of their once renounced beauty and stead. All before these houses, these business sites became vessels for the tortured souls of the misused power of the flames. It is but, too, a memory to hold and to tell the spawns, the appearance of the thousand arms as they ask for freedom from the dry clouds above.
Author’s Note: Credits to the owner of the pictures used.
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