The Journey

He rises up. Looking down he can see the forms of his friends, each glowing with it's own light, each body save his own. And he knows why. He has taken it with him. He sees the land begin to grow more distant and small until he can see the whole world at once, and finally it is so small that he can hold it in his hand, smaller than a marble yet more precious to him than anything. Clutching it tightly to himself he looks up, finally, around himself. Everywhere is barren, with only a few small, dead thorn trees and long dried scrub, and distant fires to mark the landscape. Spying at last a single, decrepit old hut far in the distance, he begins to walk, and it seems that the ground barely has any hold on him, perhaps only custom keeps him from floating off. At the doorway stands a crone, ancient and strange beyond all description.

"So you have come to play?" She says, displaying a jar "Look well, boy, you could have any one of these. And another, and another, and another...."

He looks at them carefully. Worlds, like his, but all different, all beautiful, so beautiful....

"But I suppose you have nothing to wager...." He looks down, trying to assure himself, his one world is all he needs. But if he could have one more, just one more...

"Ah, I see;" Says the crone, placing a pair of dice made from men's bones in his hand. He realizes he has revealed his secret, precious jewel and has placed it on the table, without even knowing it. "Just choose a number, then roll the dice. Very simple."

"Seven!" And the dice are thrown... five and six.

"You lose! You lose!" The crone screams gleefully, snatching up his world. "Get out of my sight!"

He walks away, slowly, realizing he's really lost everything. There is nowhere to go, but he walks on, and soon comes upon a group of people sitting around the ashes of a fire that has long since ceased to give any warmth. The people, too, have lost whatever glow they may once have had.

"Look at that." Says one. "Must be some poor son of a bitch that's lost his world. Well, he'll get used to it. Best thing he can do is just stick with us. We'll look out for him"

They are trying to build a fire, but nobody has anything to burn. So he reaches inside himself, bringing forth his memories, one by one. He places them inside the circle of stones, and they begin to burn, and though the fire gives no light, it's heat is almost more than he can bear. Someone holds a pot over the stove, and when it begins to boil he pours it's contents into a flask. As each person drinks he gives a sigh that is filled with the impressions of shadows of memories, that once brought joy, but have been forgotten long ago. But when he drinks, the light within him becomes stronger that ever, and he feels lighter than if he weighed nothing at all.

"Lucky bastard." One man says, as he disappears into the sky above.

"I wonder how long it will last?"

The place he had been, he can see now, was but an island on a swirling sea of chaos. Far below him lie the prisons of hell, and he gazes down with pity, for he knows that those damned souls have made a prison of their own desires, and while they wail for someone to release them they do not realize that only they can release themselves. But who would dare?

He can do nothing but rise up, and thus he comes to a shimmering city, far above. At it's gate's stands a woman, white with purity, but he looks not at her face but lowers his gaze in secret. Then he realizes he does not know who she is. Could she not be his own sister or mother? And he is then ashamed, and will not look at her at all, but she merely smiles and bids him come inside. The people there greet him like a long lost friend. Everywhere, there are people playing music, all in perfect, elaborate harmony. All manner of beautiful things are there. They lead him to a table with a marvelous feast. But he begins to wonder why nobody looks at anything for longer than an instant, and in that moment he sees. This place has died long ago. The table is thick with dust, the walls have begun to crumble, the food is crawling with maggots. The music is flat and discordant. And the people themselves are like corpses, they do not notice the flies that slowly devour them.

He opens his mouth, but they already know what he is about to say, and scream that he is a liar. He leaves them. It is so much easier to cling to an illusion.

Now he sees his desires surround him. Within spheres of crystal he sees beautiful women, wealth, power, all manner of sensual delights.... And he sees that these things are empty in themselves. Each one falls to the ground, and the people put them in their fires.

Now he is so light that he can see all things, and casts his glow on all things in turn. All around the people cry out for a god. Some had gods that died, or failed them, and others never had any god at all. He can be our god, they cry out, seeing his radiant light. They place him on a pedestal. Now he is the god of all things, beaming down benevolently. He will be their protector, bringer of meaning to their lives. He will relieve them of responsibility for their own existence, if only they would believe. And they sing songs of praise to him. Then the prayers come, pleading for help, one by one, until it becomes a single voice, save us! He is overwhelmed, it is too much, he cannot even think. Please, he begs, I cannot help all of you... and they begin to hiss, to jeer, to throws rocks, which strike him one by one, and then he falls.

"So here you are again." Says one of the men. "Well, thats the way it goes. You had a longer run than most. Stay here, there are still a few embers left. Better to stay here, where it's safe, than some of the alternatives...."

"Bullshit! Maybe I can no longer care, or love, or... enjoy myself, maybe I've lost all I once valued, but at least I don't have to take any more bullshit!" He begins to walk away, but he all his light is gone and he is so heavy the air almost crushes him. Step by agonizing step he makes his way back to the crone's hut. She tries to ignore him, but he pounds on her door.

"Open up!" He says "I want to play again?"

"And what have you to wager with?" She sneers "Even your precious glow is now gone"

"I will wager myself, the only thing that remains to me."

"Ah, will you?" She says, handing him the dice. "It is always the things that don't really exist that are the most precious..."

"Thirteen!" He yells, throwing the dice. Six and seven. The crone scowls and hisses and loathfully hands him his world.

"Care to play again?" she asks sourly, but he is too busy gazing upon the precious world he had almost lost forever. It grows in his hand, until he no longer holds it, but it holds him.

He wraps reality around himself like a blanket. He wonders why he ever left it. He takes in the sights, the sounds, the smells, the taste of a nearby drink. Then he sees the squalor around him, hears violence in the street, the smell of stale vomit. The drink makes him retch. He sinks now, and the darkness surrounds and overtakes him.