Two pages from the black book
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| by @d-pend |_____________________
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Two pages from the black book
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Still taken aback, I ventured "Erm... am I supposed to ask you something? It's a bit embarrassing, but I seem to have forgotten why I entered this room..." After a weird pattering of clicks and belltones that I can only assume were Om's equivalent of the expression of humor, it responded you have just asked (★ ? ← □ X ! +) Moreover, the latter half of your pronouncement, a secondary implied question, contradicts the certainty with which I have already declared you nonmoving, thus unable to enter anything. You are buried.
"Uhhh... right. Buried under the rubble of armageddon, was it? To be perfectly honest, I'm not feeling particularly 'buried' at the moment." I rejoined, as I craned my head back and tossed in a graceful arc the crystalgrape I had simultaneously materialized in my palm while speaking, to fall gently into my watering mouth. (I'm utterly unable to describe the taste, so don't ask. This is not a cop-out or self-indictment of my literary capabilities — we crystalgrape-eating lucid dreamers have an unspoken pact to never sully the divine perfection of said dreamfruit with the paltry descriptive capacity of profane wakinglife tongues.)
Catalysm. Not armageddon. (✧ ✯ ✵ ≠ ✬ X ✫) Om communicated, in a tone I interpreted as sternly calm. The former is the natural consequence of magnetoelectrical dynamics in the physical universe, while the latter is wholly the deranged product of an overactive theological imagination, bored with one's own dogma, fabricating hellscapes to entertain. "Fair enough. But still, to-may-to, to-mah-to; I don't feel buried," I chuckled, nearly choking on my next crystalgrape.
As we spoke, dark wisps seemed to be steadily flowing out of me and into Omamunabrael's bulk, which became subtle orblike bulges traveling out of Om through the aforementioned attached wires. "Out of curiosity" I segued, "What are these dark tendrils you seem to be pilfering from me and where are they being deposited — I assume for safekeeping?" False thought/memory is fascinating to us, who only deal in actualities. Despite your veiled accusation, I am currently recompensing you for the temporary perusal of your delusions, Om countered. As to the form their storage will take, I can only disclose that they are woven into black pages to be quarantined in our forbidden library. Forbidden, that is, to our young, and those not yet sufficiently oriented in the defense against the evil arts of humans. Many have fallen by the unwary consumption of such tabloids.
"Fallen? Into what exactly?" I queried, attempting unsuccessfully to envision what a young version of this surely insane being would look like. Into human incarnation (↓ ⚤ ✫), Om replied sad-wistfully. It was my turn to express my amusement with a derisive bark of laughter. "Well, being human ain't half-bad, in my opinion. No offense, but I wouldn't wanna be a big ol' triangle-thingamajig with no arms either." I opined, feasting on another delectable crystal fruit. "Live and let live, eh? Who can control the rebellion of adolescence?"
The room we were conversing in (which, forgive me, I neglected to adequately describe due to my urgency to pen this recollection before it is inevitably reconfiscated by these otherwordly cube-pyramid-beings) began to degrade, crack, and variously twist following my last brazen speech. The marble floor began to grow less reflective, littered with smudges; the granite columns lost some of the definition to their decorative embellishments, reverting towards basic cylinders: and some of the vibrant ivies crawling about the ceiling and down the stone walls began to shrivel into unhealthy dehydration as the walls themselves developed tiny crevices through which other rooms could be glimpsed. The black shapes tumbling out of me also increased their opacity, thickness, and frequency of egress.
Though we do not have such concepts, in your terms, to choose to regress into human form is the among the gravest sins our species can commit, Om stated in a much more grating mindvoice than before (which was quite frankly incomparably terrifying.) It is fine for an ant to be an ant, but for an anteater to become an ant is abject stupidity. I must admit I felt quite pleased with myself at this point, as the only reason why I attempted to anger Om was due to my hypothesis that evoking even slight irritation in such a being might cause its defenses to briefly weaken, allowing me to perhaps discern where the dark pages of our interchange were being auto-scribed into dreambook form.
In fact, as the room had degraded and become slightly less substantial, I was able to glimpse a bizarre librarian in a hidden kiosk behind and to the left of Om through a small crack in the stone. The scribe appeared similar to a praying mantis — if a praying mantis had six claws, three heads, and was constructed of iridescent metallic chitin. I saw a continuously-thickening pamphlet surrounded by a monochrome blur of symbols on a lectern directly in front of this scribe-being.
What occurred next is extremely difficult to recount. Almost immediately upon my apprehension of the book-writing process, a dissonant clap of tonal thunder shattered the comparative peace of our meeting room. I believe this was Om's response to realizing what I had seen. Immediately, the dimensions of the room became distorted and nightmarish and the degradations described above only worsened. It was only due to my lengthy training in the mechanics of astral conveyance that I was barely capable of soaring into the concealed kiosk, snatching the book off of the lectern, and pulling myself awake and out of that bizarre place.
When I arose, a thick, foreboding black tome, emblazoned with a complex geometrical sigil, was sitting on the side-table beside my bed. Everything recounted above is a rough adaption of pages seventy-three and seventy-four of this book of one thousand pages.
— created for the Ink Well —on HIVE — October 10th, 2020.
After cataclysms or destruction, perhaps what will remain will be only the memories written in a black book, a hereditary heritage like that of the collective unconscious.
Very nice to rely on writing.
Delightful!
I'm so pleased you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading :-)
Masterpiece!
!BEER
You need to stake more BEER (24 staked BEER allows you to call BEER one time per day)
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Beautiful work as always and I love the way you put words together 🤝