The Shadow

Photo by Mitja Juraja on

The sun rose on the ashen plains of the soul, as it always had, as it had in the days of the first man, as it had in the day of the last man. No moment passed without her witness, and now she trodden beside him, his uneasy gait, plunging and rising, the tide of the testament to impermanence.

He could not conceive of her. She trailed him in the corner of his eye, and the animal part of him knew her, urging him forward, sweat pooling at the palms of the man, beyond his recognition.

The man for his part rubbed his hands on his dirty leathers, and walked into that dying sun, the orange rays burdening his eyes. Death urged him forward, her lips dry and cracked her visage unchanged, but eagerness shone in her eyes.

This would be it. No more sentience, no more work, no more hands to hold, no one else to watch over, no one else to lead back to the fold. The grand experiment, would be finished, once again the universe would be cold, and dead and quiet.

The man turned, and faced her for the first time seeing her, and with a gasp he was no more, but death remained. No bliss came. Somewhere far off in the darkness, another sort of creature’s mind awoke, and death with her cracked lips cursed the silent earth, and began the long quest once more.

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