||[May. 3rd, 2009|05:36 pm]
There is a city made of tall buildings and the buildings are made of words and the words are made of teeth laid out, angled, jutting, jagged, graphing shape and method of use, spaced according to some incomprehensible blueprint. It is said that when the world was young there were two cities, and each city was a mirror of the other, and one was above and one was below. It is said that when these two cities were born they were one city fused, and they made up the whole world and walled the world in too, so there was one city and one world and one wall, and the wall was white and shining, and nothing could come in. And then the cities detached, and no one knows if one fell or one rose but only that we can no longer see our brethren or the places in which they find themselves. There is only our own world and everything is lost besides.
Here is what happened. This is what our histories tell us.
First there was a gentle breeze, and the breeze became a wind, and the wind became a gale, and the gale became a thunder and the thunder was a noise which grew and grew. Our buildings began to fracture at their midpoints and then to crumble there, and soon a gap appeared. And the space between became a chasm, and the noise filled the void, and still grew, making deaf generations of our ancestors, and yet built, until it was noise no longer but became a word.
What split the world was this: the word. And the word brought with it the tide, and the tide swole up, smacking and swelling. It was red and pink and purple, the colors of bruised blood just rising to the skin's surface. It was rough and where it touched our city it left a slime which ate at them. And ash came, and smoke, and our once-white buildings were darkened by soot and sludge, and our wall was breached, and our ancestors watched as their brothers and wives ascended in their offices and apartments, and half our city gone.
The wind and the noise and the tide gone with it. Half our world rose and gone with it.
Ours was never a race of builders—we never even knew who built for us our city, our world—so even had we wished to go forward, to repair and rebuild and forget, we could not. It is understandable, then, why many wait.
They say now there have been signs, quakings and rumbles at the outskirts. They look up, some from the safety of the ground, others in the ruins in the upper-most abandoned buildings where our world was torn apart. They say we will be made whole again.
I do not need to wait. There is no sign for me but certainty, and it is all I am. Something is coming to meet us, this I know. The how and when are mysteries, but I do not need to wait. Waiting is not for the believer, to whom nothing must be proven. It is but left for me to wonder. As they wait in the penthouses and on the rooftops which once marked our medians, I wonder. As they hold their signs and their voices growl unintelligibly and they stare past me in the crevices down between our spires, I wonder. Who is coming? Are they descending from a higher place, or rising from the lower? Do they remember as we do from where we all came? Do they think we will ever return there? Does anyone honestly believe we will find our way back?