In a few settings of moons, floundering to avoid obscurity, in taking a few moments to succumb to smoke brown fog, the fowling air that fills our soured lungs, suppressing the choke, draining the air from our personal soul will, with definite finality, act as the quicksand smothering the dim light of future.
There will be no future.
No more will we be forced to choose, to seek our course of least resistance. No more will we have the dark choices of Satan, cancer or bitter soup.
We are about to be released, freed from sorrow of bad, of something fetid and worse.
No more choice. The choice will have been made for us. Our abundance had been a fantasy, our release, an unfulfilled promise of the Gods hovering just beyond the clouds surrounding the opening of our cave.
Plato was right.
We grasped at shadows wavering on cavern walls. When we held shadow, it faded to shapeless darkness and we returned to reach toward the dark.
It was beyond a myth. It was beyond the grain of truth. Truth had never played a role in the demise of our reality. We had been tricked. The shadows promised us release, but there was no truth to be found in the shadows.
Truth was nowhere to be found.
The spice, the fragrance of petals, the heady bouquet of distant spices has been, always been a fantasy, a dream outlined in reality but only a dream.
A dream that devolved into nightmares for they had never existed and remained worse than the unfulfilled fantasy of a promised lover.
Time moves slowly, no slower. The ticks begin to fade. What time there had been forces impatient gaps. We wait in twisted patience…tick…We wait in twisted patience….tock.
Only a moment remains. With fading light, the room pales, the cave darkens and the light turns cold.