All in all is all we all are

A mind that sensed a colour glided across the sand. A colour that was a mind soothed its own reflection with trembling hands. The water ebbed, back and forth, but never moved. A crystal veil over Hell. A perfect world exquisite in every perception. So many minds trapped in cages, perfect like the sky, knowing nothing. And time, time that has nothing to remember. Trapped in cages, walking into the fire, watching, waiting, falling. Laughter needs no explanation.
I heard somebody say that we don't live or die; people just float.
Her eyes flickered momentarily. It was only indifference.
Scream.
The ocean rose to soothe the sound, buried it unnoticed in aqua seafoam shame. Colour seeping from pain, fighting the serenity. She could feel cold bones slitting through her own flesh, she could feel the warmth of life. Who said there was no empathy? She felt the agony and the paralysing fear, and smiled. Felt the strength and violence of darkness, surging with its own pain of desire, dragging down the unfallen. Hate, hate and annihilation...she smiled.
"I didn't see. I could only hear Nothing." She felt the strenth again. She felt she was staring a long long way, up an empty corridor, and somewhere above her, there were eyes that looked out on the world. Desolate sockets, a two-way mirror in a window to the soul, a dark door, barricaded. "It was too late."
She wondered what it would feel like to care.
I heard somebody say that we don't live or die; people just float.
The mind that glided across the sand, mesmerised by the creeping and the purity, it knew that this was true. Relief, pure and simple, creeping in amazement across a world it had never seen. Everything is free now, everything is good. No need to try any longer. Time has forgotten. And because everything was free, it forgot to hate.
It wondered who they were, the people who drifted along the sand. The people who floated; what have they realised, what have they known to be true, how many beautiful things have they seen? And what do they fear; what do they hate and who loves them for it? What do they want and what do they think they have, who told them to need anything? It wondered if their minds could meet, and teach each other that they are perfect, like the sky.
Because there is no hope. Because everything has a meaning. I keep forgetting.
I went to apologise.
I went out walking, down the street, to meet the passers-by, to stop them passing by. I went to tell them how infinitely sorry I am. For everything I've ever done, and everything I've thought, for my silence and my words, for all I've ever felt. For what I am about to do. For being here when you could have been here.
But I looked up, and saw a mind that was a colour, a mind that asked for no apology.
Glass that never broke. I keep forgetting.
A Still Life that moves, a set of frames - Man with Book in Hand, Bottle of Wine at Sunset, Cottage in the Snow, Man with Gun in Hand. An atmosphere of nothing. A character who evokes nobody. A breathing apparition. Yet another morning to awake. Lazarus rising up once more to embrace the hollowness.
The Still Life reminds me of something. Something that flashes and burns and rushes with supersonic speed. Something alone in the still life. And it hurts, and it hurts. Let it hurt.
A skull, simple and out of place. A cockroach that crawls across the canvas surface, dragging its legs through azure blue. Still life. An artist too bored to make anything move, too bored to let anything live. A ghost in the machine, a breathing apparition, awakes to only vaguely sense its own existence.
No one speaks.
The silence is a raging scream, and the raging scream just silence, falling into a chasm, doesn't matter anyway. Not to me, not to me. A crush of life, denouement after denouement. It's just a wait, a quiet moment, where no one speaks, and the minds are trapped in cages.

~ Tabula Rasa