Beyond understanding

The sky has no sense of stopping is flickering between day to night, faster then a toddler playing with the bathroom light cord. It glitches. It ignores gravity with the many strange things that floats above. Objects that could be plucked out of the air, felt in his hands and then thrown back up by invasive clouded darkness.

The area around was vast and not. Infinite but edged in like a barrier or closed gate held around. The floor is always going through a moment of time change. It was in perfect cycle of seasons. At the finish of a season, the floor would change. Alien or something recognizing. Ghosts of animals, beings that mocked humans, or straight up things of horror. Stone men to plague victims. Sometimes of health things or what could be considered gods. Large trees. Twisted trees. Trees that ate folks and folks that ate trees.

To call this place strange was a understatement.

Such darkness of clouds could not be touched, only that it too was like this world. Inky and thick, sometimes fluffy and thin or just solid that chilled like vaper. It didn't harm. Only cater to him. Although, there is clearly somethings it disliked him trying to do. Told him off like a shadow person wagging a finger at him.

There a strange sense that this place had no start or stop with the perpetual changes. There were only ten certain things he could really class important. If he spoke, it was distorted broken and at points soundless. As stated before, he could not explore far either by unseen walls or this mist being attached to him.

He never wakes up from what he considered dreaming until something. That something is the only other constant that doesn't obey the changes around. Like himself and this mist.

There is a stone grey brick building. At this current moment looked like a English cottage house. The mist has been the only thing to make the grey brick box change looks. He can't go into that box because of the obsidian glass in the door frame. But he can wipe away frosted parts of it to recall something. He has to do this to wake up. There is no other way to wake up. He tried.

Marcade it maybe, time or dying is another strange thing about here. He can get hurt and not wake up. He can die to things from the surrounding or sky. The mist ink always brings him back to life or recovers his injuries. Broken bones sustained here carry to his waking world. He can stay here and age and die... he did that before. This place clearly has consequences but for now only to himself or the mist.

When there is times he can look into the grey box. Its layout suited the mists needs. Like kitchen. A table for science things. A table for making crafting or fixing. The mist is always taking from the sky to use in there.

A definite stay in there is a book that writes itself and turns pages on rare occasions. There a room where a weapon that constantly flows shaps like the mist. He can only guess that the metal is sleeping. He also assumes it living like the inky mist. Maybe the box is living. Maybe this is a death god... Well he thought about that. But the door frame of obsidian has proven that its not. This frame has proven answers and gave more questions.

In every visit in order to leave, a fragment it chipped or wipped off. That fragment become him. It tells him something he knew or will know. It become his memory like he always known. The door as only fragments that will not budge unless take by him. He has to see the all these strange things for him to be invited into the box.

Fragments of memory show, places his been to but they are changed. People his never met, close to him... good times then coffin. Blood drips off him from see these things. Horrific sometimes. Scray. Sad. Happy. Off. The things he loves or will come to love. School classes his never been to yet. Jobs he will do. Adult sometimes and the not. Hard chooses of what to do with himself when things got worse and worse. There was better. He does learn things repeatedly and he can make it better that next time. Other times that gets to him, the insanity of unchanging the events from never stopping.

He takes acceptance with having these fragments. Good. Bad. Does it matter? He wakes up to life as he understands it. At the moment he went to bed last. The years spent happened only to him. He remembers them. Every fragment at a time.