Travelling yet never arriving. Feeling like sitting ducks stuck in the mud. Admiring the odd beauty of stillness. Of the lack of society. The silence. What remains? Machinery as an end to itself. Gods deaf to their remnants. Maintaining the world beneath them as a means to survive. Not to progress. I had invited you to stay simply because we had no other option.
The Stillness. Do you feel it? The calm before the promised storm that never hits. Imminent. Do you see it? Move without intent.
And then there is them. Settling in. Searching places. Finding solitude to fill. Creatures of dawn and dusk. Invisible for you and me. Wanting to stay invisible. Exploring our surroundings. Nature creeping in, finding home. Not invited, yet welcome.
Liminal as in needing the “now” as a means to decide what the “then” means. A bell rings. Was it a drop of water falling from a ceiling? A chain rusting through? We’re just listening while the echoes get quieter. A machine starts puffing. It answers the lifeless voice.
Not meaningless, not important. Layers of layers of friends. Not humans, not machines, not creatures but their accidental connection through space and time. He who is wandering is he who gives purpose. But we’ll seem like an oversight. Like purpose in the un-purpose. Like sand in the rusting gears of a falling-apart dystopia.
Liminal like always dusk. Keeping changes but stopping their promotion. Somewhere besides reality. Hear the buzzing in the air? Who knows when it’ll start. See the ripples in the lake? A rusted friend will descend into their place of solitude.
Consequences? What even are consequences in the mechanical slumber? The dreamers won’t awake. They’ll just sleep differently.
I started writing this “accidental story” while trying to formulate a vibe for a different project. What I find really fun is that the way this story came about is the same as its shape: Emerging from unconnected chains of thought, going back to its origins. Only thoughts.
Thank you for reading.
All the best, Christian