I am writing words while seated at a borderland. My new watch has ceased to record any measurement, as this came from a respectable merchant the conclusion must be I have wandered into a place of possibilities. Though not a particularly inspiring vista. As far as the eye can see bleak grasslands, stroked by persistent moaning winds, the occasional rise in the ground breaking up the flatness, dark grey cover of cloud so pervasive it does not appear to have motion. Turning in all directions this would appear to be the circumstance for at least as far as the eye can see. This is not a place I would care to spend a night upon, the moon supressed by the cloud would not be able to shed illumination and such an environment would be ideal stalking grounds for things which abide in limited visibilities.
The grass is dry, hard stuff, appears to thrive in a place short on moisture; it is sucking sustenance from somewhere for there is no sign of rock, no earth, nor sound of water. I notice I do not feel chill from the continuing wind. This should be a winter, but the temperature is steady. A sullen, heavy warmth. Not freshened by breeze. Encouraged by the leaden sky.
So if this is a possibility what history brought about its domination?
Wherever this is the place is receptive to my thoughts, for the winds begin to birth voices far off at first, all discordant, becoming shrill as they grow closer. Conflicting. Arguments with neither side listening.
And these myriad angry reeds must have beginnings. So from all horizons come marching ghosts, rank upon rank, unfocused eyes narrowed in hate, mouths twisted in litanies of passions learned by rote.
I fear for I am at the centre where they must meet and will be witness and possibly caught up in their battles, battered about in a storm. For here they come, so close I can make out individual features; the ages, the races, the fashions. All sharing the sterility of confrontation. They meet, but do not see each other, they pass through me, they pass through each other. I am at the centre of a storm of voices and features, but no one sees the other. And on they pass marching over the horizons, away from each other, growing more distant. Once more I am alone.
So how often do these ghosts come back? Drawn by their dry, pointless passions, ever marching towards each other and never meeting. How much time was spent in their mortal spans upon this effort, giving up their potential for joy, love and accomplishment? At what stage did they cease to hold onto the value of Life and give way to this futility. I suppose there must have been conflict, and yet I saw no armed ghosts. Maybe those who took this option blew themselves literally out of existence. Are these hillocks and mounds the remains of cities and other artefacts now covered by the grasses?
So was this how it turns out. Now apocalyptic wastelands, no bones of cities and irradiated colourful vistas, no grotesquely shaped descendants with bizarre cultures. Did those who lived on hate and conflict suck hope and joy out of everyone? Did it become impossible to even live, much less thrive. And when we had finally ceased; weighed down by our depressing, bleak confrontations, had we polluted the world with this particular toxicity so much so that only harsh, leeching basic life continued?
Beneath a dull desolate sky.
It would appear, not with a Bang, nor a whimper, just a bitter, derisive curl of the lip.
Who would have ever thought it?