365 Days of Creativity
day ninety six
The room is quiet. Silent. So silent you can hear your organs working.
If you had any.
Your skeleton sits cross-legged. Your arms hang down to the floor with your bare-bone palms faced up. The ceiling above you is moist; little beads of wet gather and drop into your open hands.
Each drop is a soul which rushes through you on contact. You see, but you don't learn. You hear, but you don't understand. Almost, you catch a name, but the rush is gone.
Forever you sit in the underworld. Absorbing souls as they drip beneath the earth. Feeling each life pass through you, wanting for one of your own.
You are Lucifer and God.
You are The River Styx.
You are the edge of the Universe and the end of Time.
You are all that is left when there's nothing left at all.
Soon the souls will stop dripping.
And silence will be all that you have,
No organs to keep you company
No souls to misunderstand,
No heartbeat to flutter wildly
No more wet in the palm of your hand.
