Ketamine 2 - Turn of the Sun

I awaited the approach of the winged silhouettes born of the artificial light. There was my consciousness in a tiny boat. I was afloat in a sea of the worst turmoil the brain could muster, and one with a surface of my own denial, opaque enough to mask it all. There, in the distance: a small, featureless island. As I alight upon it, I wish for a small weed, a bush, a clam, a crab, anything alive. I wished so very hard for something real that I missed my boat’s tide-drawn departure. Unfortunate as it was, a more important happening was afoot; the cadre of winged things were now within yards of me. As they were not meant to be seen until they were truly upon me, they kept themselves in front of the sun so as to mask details of face or feature. One by one, in a gracefully cruel way, they alighted upon the island’s edge opposite mine. “What? Where from?” were the pervading questions of my inner monologue. I should have been much more aware, and wary, at that, of the intentions of the platoon of mystifying soldiers. As the foremost of their tall, muscular figures approached me, I was filled with a strong desire to know it’s face. It spoke. I will never know what it said, because though it was spoken word, I did not hear it; the words were felt. And the words were hate. At that moment, the whole of the world seemed to rotate one hundred eighty degrees without exerting any friction on myself or the seven things on my island. With it rotated the sun, and now, for the first time, there were illuminated seven blue-skinned winged men. Written January 9th, 2002 © on Jan 08 2002 03:54 PM PST   0 • 10