An Ode to What Remained
“Only when it ends!” Sola cried. “And then what?” the Old World asked.
Sola could only look back in shame at those pitiful mammals, as the "Longing" forced that silver on their fingers and their fingers around their supervisors' throats. She couldn't even imagine how it must have felt for that thing to seduce their spinal cords and slither into their periaqueductal grey.
As she sank deeper into the temperate embrace of "Order", a quiver coursed through some of her layers, swallowing unimportant third-world villages and economically destroying some coastal cities. At last, she too had gotten over herself and her little dalliance with Longing. Who could’ve known that the remedy for heartbreak had always been: Forty-two million casualties, an unprecedented intersolairial union, and forty-eight years of progressive cultural and intellectual stagnation—certainly not her.
“Adieu!” She waved as the ship distanced itself from the sizzling shore of frantically gathered history. Long gone were the smokey memories of rebellion, innovation, and hope. Taken by the ash, carried to the railing, and surrendered to the red waves. Nothing but soggy mind pictures, castles in the sky, drug-induced disruptions of neurotransmitters, and juvenile phases.
“Maturing takes sacrifices, and these," the clear waters whispered, “were worth it.”
Rail carriages drove when turned on. Rain dropped from the airship-dotted skies. The veil devoured reality.
Sol sat on his throne. All was normal on Sola...
But what’s that? There at the coast. Did the blood waves not wash up the corpse of the past? It couldn't have been suicidality that ripped open the discolored tissue while it wriggled and writhed its way to the primary motor cortex. Did forgetfulness make the molten pinky and ring fingers twitch? Maybe perseverance forced the purge fluid to escape through the mouth and nose.
Who cares? What mattered was that the question was never answered.
OutstandingOutcast · Fantasia
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