Ink

The ink flows down my page, my parchment, my vellum. My story, told in its entirety, is too long and far-reaching to complete and understand in the short period of time I have with you. So I shall pick out what I deem to be my most creative moments, and tell you a short story of how the world ended. Or should I say worlds? Each one suffering a different fate at my hands, a most inspired conclusion, fitting for my Book. One I shall publish one day, when the madness (or genius) subsides. People take you far more seriously sober and clean.

My mind is drunk with ghosts and words, letters from those long dead, ancient quotes and philosophy. The burden is too great; I can feel my mind drowning in perpetuity.
My lamp hangs obediently over my desk, illuminating my unfinished soon-to-be masterpiece. The rest of my small study is dark, brimming with long rolling shadows of creatures born from my senseless imagery of Hell, or what I think its denizens would look like, with deference to long ago painters and artists whose visions I now draw forth. Their work has not been in vain.

So I watch the ink flow downwards, ever downwards, to infinity. A blooming waterfall of meaning, blotting out my story in a cataclysm of words and lost voices. So, in anger, I rip the page from my Book and begin anew. I take my pen (or quill as I see it, madman that I am), a modern day Prometheus, my story unsung as yet, or so it should stay, I am not sure (again as of this moment). And I write with the frenzied imagination of an eccentric poet, like a mathematician who has stumbled upon the geometries of Heaven and lost his sanity. So if I may talk or ramble at you a while longer, let me tell you this story upon which lies the end of my world, and many more to come.

New York City, unknown era

"Brought low, you will speak from the ground, your speech will mumble out of the dust, your voice will come ghostlike from the Earth, out of the dust you will whisper. And your many enemies will become like fine dust, the ruthless hordes like blown chaff. It will happen in an instant."

The day the angels came down from above, on their wings of burning white flame, I was seven. I remember it clearly, as if the events in my life thereafter did not happen (or had no meaning). I saw them clear as day, shimmering metallic monoliths spewing righteous fire from their mouths. I saw buildings crumble, I saw people dying, burning and screaming. Thousands were running in a chaotic and frenzied panic. We looked to the sky to see more angels strike low at our homes, and in the distance the factories burned. I looked on in awe and praise, my mind seeped in flames and afterimages of light. A Day Of Reckoning to be sure.

My mother held my hand throughout.
"Its ok sweetie" I remember her voice, warm and affectionate "Our time has come, the end of our story."
A child looking for comfort, finding solace only in me. What I later learned to be a form of irony. We held each other close, parent to child, child to parent. And we watched the End of the World unfold. Such a glorious sight it is, the kaleidoscope of chaos that unfurls like a flower blossoming in springtime before me. But then I stop, and it's as if a veil has been removed from my eyes, uncovering the terrible truth that is happening all around me. I close my eyes and pray that what I'm seeing is not true, that it's all a dream. My mother still clings to my side, mumbling praise in blind ecstasy. I do not know her anymore. I do not know anything. I look at the face of the angel who approaches us, and I see it for what it really is. Behind its cold black metallic gaze, I see...nothing. In a haze of noise and smoke, I see nothing, nothing at all. I stare, overwhelmed with emotion and fear, and grip my mother's hand even harder. And then she is gone, falling through my grasp like water through fingertips.
I screamed then. I did not understand. I cursed the angels, those self-proclaimed lords on their high thrones.

I will not submit. I vow instead to burn them. I find will find them, and I will burn them all.
And in my moment of absolution, in my moment of certainty and wisdom of the journey I was embarking on, the tears came. And with them, the sadness and gut wrenching grief. My heart was hollowed out and my mind was shattered. But my soul was still intact. I knew this even as I fell to the ground, vision blurred, tears streaming like lost souls down the river of my face. This I knew. They had not broken me yet.

Things from then on get darker and more obscure, as if I am in a fading dream (or am myself a fading dream). Which, when I look back, I may well be. My name? I do not care to speculate. Wonder if you will. I am the last survivor on Earth. I sit in my room, my hastily made shack of broken shards of corrugated iron, and I listen to the rain thrumming endlessly on the roof. I live my life a nomad, a drifter. I pray every day for the angels to come again and end it, finish what they started. And then I wonder, did they not already end it, on that fateful/glorious day countless millennia ago? And I am living in a permanent state of purgatory? I wish the former were true. I stand up slowly, unsure of my feet. My head is ringing and throbbing uncontrollably from my century long binge. I can hardly see, even as I thrust my hand out to grab the pole protruding from the ground to haul myself up. Then I wash, in the small metal basin on the ground beside my sleeping area. Its not particularly thorough (or clean), but it will do.

Thus, as it is told in the Book, I step out into my own broken world, a labyrinth of dust and steel. The rain continues to beat down mercilessly, the constant pattering and drumming boring into my skull like a pneumatic drill, intensifying my headache beyond the line of bearable pain. But I ignore it with a passion. My vision returns fully soon thereafter, when the throbbing subsides, and I begin to see the shapes of twisted towers of debris, valiant memorials of more optimistic days. I can smell the sea close by, the salt breeze wafting inland. I guess I could not be more than a few miles from the beach.
The rain dissipates, the sky darkens, and what meagre sunlight there is casts shadows upon the grey world I inhabit. My walk takes me through forests, across oceans, over cities long buried by nature, and replaced with mountains of rubble and lakes of fire, sending black fumes skyward, towards the edge of dreams. I wonder if I could ever touch the sky, like those cursed angels with their wings of steel, what would I find? The end of my story? Or an empty nothingness? Or both?
My world darkens further.

Flick

The ink again begins to flow/fall/rise. It envelopes my thoughts in a murky, sticky haze of concepts. What should be, what is and what was. It doesn't make a difference.
"The distinction between past, present and future is only an illusion, however persistent".
They are not pleased with my work? They have no appreciation of true talent. My writing is unparalleled with its myriad complexities. And still they know nothing of the intricacies of language, the foundation upon which their civilisation is built. But I vow, my Book will be done.

I write now in a frenzy of inspiration, my body frozen but my mind flowing above the constraints of time and space, like water over rock. The ink streams from my quill.
"I am I: I think, I exist. But know nothing of all that is under or over the abysmal attitude that so wrack our awareness in the last autumns of mayhem upon the Earth".

Flick

The Tower of Babylon stands to my right like a grotesque protruding thorn, shooting aimlessly up towards a murky red tinted sky. It's like something from every cliched apocalyptic tale ever told. But it suits. Burnings husks of vehicles litter my immediate surroundings, and I breathe in their toxic petrol fumes gladly, knowing that respiration is a physical phenomenon, and that I am in a dream. Maybe I'll wake up, maybe not. I collapse beside a small pool of water, and stare at my reflection in the tainted liquid. I see my rotting flesh, clinging to bones of ash. I stop and gape, my mind numb. It does not disturb me that I am dead, or in the process thereof. It does not disturb me that I am a walking zombie. What disturbs me is that I now remember with absolute conviction the face behind the angel I saw on that fateful day an eternity ago. I continue to stare at my reflection in the pool.

Flick

I throw my chair across the room. The lamp flickers and the shadows cower and morph. I am blind with rage. It is quite a normal occurrence, the product of genius. But this time it's different. I walk across the dark room towards the bathroom, open the cabinet behind the mirror and open a full bottle of sedatives. I close the door and stop. The world flickers and lurches, making me nauseous. I see someone in the mirror, a world behind my world. And I look at my rotting skin, clinging hopelessly to my face. I bring my hands up and touch my cheek. My skin turns to ash, falling like sand through my fingertips.
Behind me I see the Tower of Babylon, and I see the angel walking with royal brass towards me. In its hand is the Book, I am sure. It holds it like an offering, a gift for my services.
-Your story begins anew, it echoes. I hear the words as lightning through my spine, the earth breaking apart under me, the elements of nature flowing through me. I am alive with ecstasy, with life.
-I will serve, I say, though in a language far surpassing any human one. Liquid force rolls off my tongue. But I know what I am saying, God forgive me, I know what I am saying. I collapse onto the cold hard tile floor, sobbing and laughing hysterically.
I will burn you Duke, and I will finish my Book.

"Narcissus sings his final song,
A song for one
And one for all"

End