It has been perhaps three sunsets since I
descended into the dark caves of immanence. Now my breath is drawn but a yard
from my chest. The clammy walls of the muddy cave prevent my body from
stretching. The low ceiling constricts my space and the feeling of being
forever crushed oppresses my skull. My glorious instruments of heroism are
blunted - my great sword dulled for digging, my shining shield dark as midnight
for mud, and the nipples on my gold-fitted chest plate have been filed away for
hours of scraping past stone cliff-faces.
Aye, it is a
dire time indeed.
Doubly so when
I remember, with misty eyes, the good old days of patriarchal immortality. Back
in that transcendent era I used to fly with my brothers amongst the clouds,
soaring on veins of heat, silhouetted against the resplendent sun. I'd commune
directly with the manly, bearded gods of reason and logic. The world was clear,
for my eyes were distinct crystals of beaming power, and my memory stretched
back into distant aeons beyond mortal reckoning. Oh my memory was vast, my
experience huge, all swathed in Reason's understanding of the immutable laws
holding together the tendons of reality. Absolutely certain was I that glory
was part of my very essence. Oh it was just great...
At least until
that cosmic fold sucked me out of paradise twenty-five years ago and plunked me
down onto this wretched world, a screaming, helpless babe suckling on a...oh I
don't even want to admit it - tis so embarrassing!
I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't entirely mind the mortal realm of existence - it's not that bad. The sun is pleasant on the skin, as is a light gale passing through ones hair. Sometimes you awaken to the scent of wet flowers and the sensation of delicate dew-tipped grass upon the toes. Sometimes the grandness of the starry chamber above causes a sense of wonder and cosmic helplessness that cannot be felt when you are immortal and stuff.
Yet, yet I feel
like my fire is now slowly being drained from me. The mortality of my earthly
man-body brings me misery whenever I think about it. I like being alive, but
every-time I think about my being alive I am instantly reminded of the fact
that I am going to die. I am trapped within the all encompassing placenta of
nature, inexorably woven into the cycle of death. The sight of the germ in the
soil reminds me of my own shameful beginnings, reminds me of all that I lost
when chaosmother brought me into nature.
So, I came to
the caves of immanence to become death, to fight off terrible giants of
nature and the bestial goddess-worshipping hordes. And let me tell you, I had
my moments! Cutting that Minotaur’s balls off was one for the theatres! If only
you were there. And that mass of warped goat-men I slew with a mere manly
glance - I taught their kind a thing or two about staring at someone for an
inappropriate length of time (it is most awfully rude, and fatal when directed
at an all-powerful demigod such as myself). Onwards I strode, making war,
saving the helpless, seducing swooning fanciers by the dozen.
Now my days
are numbered; my hubris has led me to fight Death itself with a sword, a
fight that can never be won . Nature's earthy passageway seems to stretch on
into infinity. There is no way I can dig my way out. I have strutted unto my
own grave. Before snuff it, I might as well deliver another few nostalgic
paragraphs:
Ah yes, the
lads back home, how I'll miss them. We used to drift along the river on our
barges, letting the sun crisp our skin. We would talk of noble things on our
adventures; great tourneys and the skill of their combatants, battles and
magic, the construction of engines, various types of fermented barley. And
then, when we returned home, we would take our ploughs and tear mother-soil and
plant our seeds, and hew the forests and quarry the stones, and melt the iron
and control the world and stuff. There was always another rebellious realm to
subjugate, always a river dyke that need fixing, always excitement on the
horizon.
Worst of all
was home time! The number of times I would be dragged by the ear to bed by that
nattering gnat of a fishwife! And the lads too, oh it was terrible. The bitter
crones, the haggard hags, the wearisome witches, they would clip our wings
whenever they could.
Yet now I feel
the clutches of death darkening my vision. Farewell reader, I am now dead. Yep,
definitely dead as of...now! Uuuuuh...
...darkness...void...
Hark! Affairs
just got really weird dude, I mean, really weird. Everything was pitch black.
The ground felt papery and smelt of dust. Then I felt the surface rumble
beneath the footfalls of some great giant entity in the darkness! It lowered
itself to my level, drew breath and snapped its fingers. Two towering candles
on either side of an immense book burst into life and projected my tiny
flickering shadow over the gargantuan pages! Leering down at me were the brown
eyes of a giant, glint with the reflection of the candles flame. Then, like a
great sliding cliff she leaned back in her monolithic chair and started to
mockingly talk down to me (in a distinctly french accent!). She seemed to know
everything, of my birth, death, resurrection. She knew of my deeds, my dreams,
my desires, my past. She knew of an eternal battle between man and...that other
one. Wo-man. Thats the one! She spoke of how this endless, reciprocal war for
essentiality, this war of push-and-pull, this war to be the default voice of
humanity, led to all sorts of drama (I can say!) yet realized us as free
beings, and granted us our humanity. She spoke of how wo-man had been liberated
from nature; how mother-earth was no longer mother, but simply earth.
Then, with a
very slight smile, she accused my supremacy of being a myth! It cannot be, it
is as real as that four-headed pink pegasus on page eighteen!
Oh, oh maybe
she is right; maybe there is no empirical evidence for my noble, transcendent
essence and my cursed fishwife's illogical, immanent, Other essence, but
where's the romance in living your life according to facts and figures and
such?
'Get a life
you big beaverface!' I bark
Now what is
she doing? For some capricious reason this illogical creature has placed her
fickle hands on either side of the book and has slowly raised the...ah shit.
FWUMP!
Selim
'Selim' Talat
