I strained to focus on some tangible point in a barren landscape. A black rope of sheer material, twisted such that small stars flickered in and out of existence, rolled across all that was. As breath was stolen, that rope with no finite end tied together the totality stretched out before me. There was nothing save for the hypoxia flashes across across a dimming field of vision. And in that dream I was ended; in that dream the rope had corded itself around me, silenced the subtle whisper. There was nothing more; the question answered.
And so, in waking life, I think of being a prophet, of viewing the chasm awaiting us with no real hesitation, of coming back from the dusk and greeting the dawn. But the time of those subtle prophets is over, laid waste for the newer treason of an absolute belief in the world as perceived. In this, the waking world, the light existent in that cord gives hope for something greater. The tightening strain of perception; of holding on to air; and lungs; and the sense of being unique. To be released; to be given up to the idea that there is light from the unknown; that there is the faintest hint of life beyond the veil. And, with that, the sleeping world turns to dawn, and the hesitations of the day begin. We all mark our books in hope that the meanings will be permanent, that something can survive the veil. We all continue down the paths of the waking world failing to look up, for fear of seeing that horrible dark with those horrible tiny specks of hope, not bright enough for the day.