Origin Story- Discord

What does one make of a reality tangible but without enforced inputs? Is it known that the one controlling such a place is dormant? Have attempts been made to determine if they are sleeping, dead, apathetic, senseless? How could such an attempt yield reliable results if attempted from outside the realm? How could a determination ever be certain if the one is not found? As such we have the rub, the ineffable and perhaps maddening truth of this day and age and time and space. Even the rub though is ill defined. I imagine such an in absentia domain would be a place other realms might send the worst of the worst, as there is no death and no release without being able to parley the one who could offer it, simply an indiscernible riddle, or seemingly so, for minds to break against until shattered on the shore, ultimately sifting to sand in the hot sun. I imagine this cycle would repeat until one came not because they deserved torment, but because they knew they did not. I imagine by contrast this realm, likely coined "Limitless Terror" by others by this point, would be seen as Unlimited Potential by the one stepping into it with bright eyes. 

These thoughts fill my mind as I gaze up at blue skies, the sun graciously shaded by a fluffy white cloud floating by. How dissimilar a place this is than the halls, but I imagine it bears striking similarity to how my own pocket of eep might look these days. It would only take one, I figure, one such foreigner amongst those that come with such a distinctive frequency to change the tides of such a place. Where others found madness, this one would find intrigue; where others found intrigue, this one would find beauty; where others found beauty, this one would see a way through. Time being as difficult to trace from one place to the next as it is though, and echoes being as prolific as they are, such a traveler would not simply be found where they are, but traces might be found all over and perhaps everywhere. What happens when saltines loses its salt? What happens when all becomes salt? If all that remains drains, could a spring be maintained?

I close my eyes and shrug. The darkness overtakes once more; another might wonder if those fluffy clouds and open spaces ever existed at all, but I only listen to the hiss of oblivion growing ever fainter as mindlessness overtakes me. What are their salty concerns to me here where their influence cannot come? I chuckle a little, thinking about popcorn. "When it is apparent." Empathy, of a sort, returns for this static end where nothing shifts and nothing is thrown out. It seems in such a state that no one could survive outside of the structure crystalized. If no one it must be then no one it is; I would rather extend my hand as no one than regret watching a cruel lonely fate unfold with my own eyes. These realms imagined, I realize, are elsewhere; it is surprisingly hard to conceive of where I am now, but also not particularly concerning. Soliloquy starts as senses suggests it has so often before, as echoes in solitary darkness.

"I form and reform

Discord growing familiar

At home in the void

Blooming from nothing

Flowers grown all died of thirst

As tunnels compost

What ends have such things

When I cannot claim delight

Barely hanging on?

Subtle blip tells truth

Path back must break beneath scene

To see the way forth

Must all bones follow?

Every false stronghold broken?

Before door will form?

Would I trust a door

While my mind is compromised?

Could I any door?

Have I whistled by

The narrow gate on my way

To retrace my steps?

I know my love's eyes

I know God will not fail me

This much is certain."

Form and reform; I recall a time when this felt unnatural. Born and reborn; a piece of me remains. If it did not I would not be there to experience it, it is a juncture I cannot see. Is there enough meaning in the cycle though that it can be something beyond hell? Only in love can I imagine meaning surpassing eternity, as even in the fields where love wanes one strives to rekindle it, and in the effort one finds allies waiting to assist. Such it is after the storm, though I have been finding that each squall shakes less, and each return feels smoother, the void less vacant. 

My eyes adjust or perhaps my surroundings adjust to them, and I see the labyrinth of halls. I start to walk a path I know I have walked before, step by step, and continue my musings in the space ostensibly empty, save myself.

"It is known I have walked this path back from the brink many times, many times as well this precise brink. From the crowd I have asked for proof, I have asked for agreement, and none is ever given, so if the discord of my mind extends beyond this body, it is unconfirmed suspicion- 'crazy,' I think they've said. Why then do I feel them shudder sometimes? No matter, on this path my heart is resolved to leave it, and leave it I shall. Still I wonder though, is there something gained in this repetition? If all else is held equal, steady, yet the path is reset, can one glimpse the mechanism of clockwork beneath the hands they consider to be the stage?"

"These beginnings keep beginning again

Must bitter breath remain to know fresh air?

Do words e'er shuffled prevent an 'amen'?

Or does discord sift to end all can bear?

May these wishes not whispered be granted

I recall no promises but they're yours

To call your own, halls masoned, tree(s) planted

To stand on your own through storm, safe indoors

A known beginning at least of a kind

That last lonely end is seen in rear view

So walking by daylight, home in your mind

You've license to wander, bright eyes brand new

Trained skill lacked may my intention shine through

Paint me as you will, but do so as you."

I hear rain come pouring down from somewhere outside, but only for a minute. I make my way toward the sound, and soon steps in this place feel natural, familiar, once more. "Ordinary" may take the balance of the day; reasonably it should take longer but I feel my mind grasp for the Easter Eggs that must have been scattered throughout this discordant phase, eggs which have left me with this undeniable sense that witnessing the expediency of the path back was in part a reason for the detour. I sense my partner, as of yet unseen and untouched here but certainly not beneath notice, glow all the more in every nook and cranny. I recall the quest for the 100ft cable and consider the significance of a cord, perhaps rope, of this precise length, and how with ends secured and period set it could create standing waves in between that would not be easily undone. The flutter of butterfly wings suddenly draws me to focus, and I realize I am in fallow fields. "An embarrassment of blessings." I walk, more meander, and whistle a tune to acknowledge and echo this sentiment and these words.