Time stands still in center of my location. I only know I've been trapped here for eleven years because of my very limited connection to Earth.
My prison is a far cry from the earthly concrete cages. I still marvel at sights here that can never exist on our home planet.. Humans are born into a state where so many dimensions converge and yet we are completely ignorant of its true workings. So much so that we take it for granted, the boundless beauty of Earth. We can’t conceive of what it would be like were we to throw in even two more dimensions, or perhaps remove a couple.
I can see the huge area outside of the box I'm imprisoned in. Though I no longer have eyes, I still have an optical sense. My box is transparent and I am thankful for that. It very well could have been one of an obsidian material. Those do exist. There are many of them in the far distance below me.
There are quite a few of us floating around here, though I am the only one in a clear box. We are prized possessions because we came here on our own free will. We became privy to a way where we allowed ourselves to become trapped this way. (Legitimate occultic information is either heavily guarded or disseminated incompletely in order to protect humanity. Though at various times throughout history there have been instances where we have completed a puzzle, giving in to an insatiable curiosity without regard to what lies at the end of the road.)
At the edges of the surrounding void is time itself, manifesting hexagonally and spinning multilayered like never-ending and everlasting cogs and gears of some kind of universal timepiece. Or better yet like a giant cylindrical combination lock, but turned inside out and larger than the Milky Way on a night sky in the wilderness.
And it seems to never end. If the black voids above and below me are of any indication of direction, then my box is suspended in nothingness and positioned as a diamond. No matter which way you interpret it, it is still a box. A transparent prism, a diamond that can never be penetrated.
What can I say that will allow you to wrap your head around this? It isn't the kind of hell I was led to believe it is. This is my hell and it is bliss. I arrived in a state of wonderment and I've remained that way ever since.
That is probably not what you wanted to hear. It's boring, right? I should be swimming in a river of brimstone or being quartered by a quartet of thoroughbred centaurian demons. Perhaps flayed alive, only to have my skin regenerated and the process repeated for eternity. I'm very sorry that I can't cater to your sadistic inclinations but that was not who I was on Earth.
I have, however, been informed by my warden that these hells are very personal. If you are one who leans toward the darkness in life, and should you be trapped into one of these boxes, then your experience will be very dark indeed. Those black boxes I mentioned earlier? Degenerates who lived lives so dark that it caused an infection of the soul, yet they had maintained enough fortitude and wit to end up here, rather than die a natural death and see where that rebirth took them. All black magicians.
The question of how I managed to deliver this testimony to humanity will come in due time. I will give you a somewhat brief examination of my life and how I met my warden, Altinius.
I can blame my mother for my predicament, as it was her who had delivered the key, but I can’t and I wouldn't..
She was always a bit eccentric but not so much that it inhibited her white collar profession. In appearance, she was a normal woman. In practice she was a formidable defense lawyer,, a brilliant woman...a master of truths. She spun the most intricate webs of little truths, in order to bring forth a more compelling truth, which would be the ultimate truth to conceal the actual truth. She'd mastered the mechanisms of defense in a court of law. She’s a genius.
Home was minimalist, to say the least. A grand loft, spacious and very..white. All of that space and only the bare essentials. Two beds, two black leather love seats and no TV. We each had our own libraries, as we were both voracious readers. Shelves and shelves of books, with no pictures or art of any sort on the walls. None in the loft at all. It was as though it was furnished to have no distractions from study and I was always ok with that. I could be buried in pages of metaphysics and philosophy for hours. That was my, our world.
I inherited my love of learning from her. Books were like gods that we worshipped. I'd surrendered and dedicated myself to these gods long ago. I was born with a developmental disorder and books were my way to feel a sense of calm. My idealistic nature was nurtured and nourished by billions of words.
There was a book, a moleskin journal really, that my mother occasionally wrote in and always left on her bed. I had always wondered what was in it, but I respected her privacy and never intruded. Really! It was like a compulsion to not take things that weren't offered to me or go places I wasn't invited to. I didn't know she would give it to me on my sixteenth birthday. I had always received books as birthday gifts, boxes full. But on my last birthday, she gave me her personal treasure. Her only wish was that I read it in her absence.
That wish turned out to be the easiest ever to fulfill, as I was often alone. I waited a couple of days so I could finish the book I had been currently reading, before so much as peeking inside the journal. My OCD wouldn't allow me to do otherwise. Then one evening, the opportunity came.
I was a bit tense at the impending revelation of sixteen years of my mother's work. I mean, the journal was 30 pages...max! What could one possibly write for so long with so little leaf to work with? The possibilities gave me worms in my abdomen. That's what it felt like. Anxiety and excitement consumed me and caused my bowels to churn and my mouth to dry. Would I be rewarded with some grand knowledge? A declaration of love, perhaps? What if I were thoroughly underwhelmed? Pulling open the hard skin cover had surprisingly been very challenging.
Then I did it. I opened the journal.
To my astonishment, there were no comprehensible words until the last page. I didn't read them as it would have triggered a panic attack, had I not properly consulted the preceding pages. Pages are numbered for a reason. I don't want to insult your intelligence, it's just one of my many compulsions.
Anyhow, the pages were filled with the most intricate and delicate designs. One page had fine geometric symbols, each a different color, overlapping one another only to all converge at one single point.
I had no idea my mother was an artist.
Another had perfectly symmetrical and exquisitely shaded stars over a lightly drawn fleur-de-lis, wallpaper-like backdrop. The stars appeared to hover over the floral pattern and I instantly recognized it as the constellation of Sagittarius, since it's my sign. A certain area known as 'The Teapot' was the only part of the constellation to have lines connecting the stars. And oddly, the star called Ascella was the only one to contain it's two companion stars, as it is a triple star system.
There was a page of an unknown script written from right to left, then left to right on the next line...all drawn in one continuous line. Another, which made me dizzy and almost nauseous, was of a spiral drawn from outside, inward to a black point, again in one continuous line.
Proceeding pages were artist renditions of things I love. A Soqotra dragon blood tree. A Schaus' swallowtail butterfly. Mentmore Towers ( my dream home). Hibiscus flowers for the Mexican jamaica drink I'm obsessed with. A portrait of Johann Sebastian Bach. A portrait of me.
It was stunning! An exquisitely executed display of graphite and pen crafted talismans, all unique to myself, done by the hand of an artist who had kept her talent hidden my whole life. My mother. My loving and providing mother.
At last, the words. The epilogue, penned in a handwritten script that was undoubtedly my mother's, yet was an elegant Edwardian calligraphic version. It could have been written with a quill, it was so lovely and antique looking. It was titled 'A Song to Altinius'.
I read the poem out loud. The words made my heart melt. This was the epitome of a mother's love for her child. She solidified the fact that she knew me in and out and she had not only accepted my being, but celebrated it and treasured it.
I'm not a people person but the two friends I did have had gotten cars for their sixteenth birthdays. I didn't need that. We lived central enough to the necessities that my legs were my vehicle. My gift was priceless and meant supremely more to me than any machine ever could.
Then he appeared.
I didn't know it was him at first. There on my mother's love seat sat a toddler, no more than three years of age. He was impeccably dressed in a miniature doll version of a gentleman.
I was dumbfounded. Perplexed. Scared out of my mind. I hadn't seen or even heard him walk in, or materialize or whatever it is he did to get there. I'd just glanced up to give my eyes a break from reading and there he was. I'd thought it was a doll for a split second. For that fraction of a moment, I'd considered that maybe mom had gifted me a doll for some reason. A doll for a doll, perhaps. Everyone knows I never liked dolls though.
Then the little shit moved. Well his hideous black eyes did, at least. Boy I can't stand babies. They're all creepy and this one was exceptionally chilling.
The shaded incandescent bulb on mom's night stand cast an uncanny shadow across his chubby little porcelain white face. A wave of dull shine, caught by his black hair, slicked back and parted to perfection, had once and for all canceled out any delusions of effigy.
I don't know how long I had my eyes buried in the journal, but it was long enough that I had failed to realize that night had fallen, and it has taken with it my perception of the depth of my immediate surroundings.
All was dark. I couldn't see passed the chairs, as if my pupils had been dilated and my vision struggled for something familiar. My mind burned to reconcile my feelings with something that was highly improbable.
No, impossible.
I panicked. My eyes watered and I gasped for air, wanting to cry but my body and mind were out of sync. I grunted until it subsided a bit.
I fought it. I closed my eyes for a few seconds. When I opened them, he was pointing at me. I noticed his nails were long like a woman's.
He spoke.
"I know what you want." he said in his baby voice. "Nothing in all these books of yours will get you any closer to what you seek. Quite the contrary.. You remove yourself further from reality the more you bury yourself into those wretched pages.”
Wretched pages? This is my whole world he was criticizing! How dare he. “Why do you say that?”, my voice quivered because I was still quite scared, though I was truly puzzled..
“Humanity has allowed the amusements of imbeciles to become law through the word on the page. Most of you blindly accept what is written without proper consultation of your mind’s eye. While you are an exception, you are however guilty of forming an internal religious fervour dedicated to the worship of these books.”
I was horrified. “What's wrong with that? I love books. They bring me peace.”
“Which is an illusion. The truth is that you interpret chaos as peace. Confusion is your comfort. You can't help that, I know. But I can help you to know rather than always striving to understand. Is that not what you want?”
He smiled and my god his teeth looked like sixty years of coffee and cigarettes. As he scratched at his leg, his slacks lifted above his ankles revealing coarse hair protruding from his socks.
He was right though. That was exactly what I wanted.
“Then so it shall be, my child.” He jumped off of the chair and when he hit the ground, it sounded like a cinder block had been dropped. I clutched my journal. My eyes welled up.
“I am not evil, child. You’ve nothing to fear but the unknown, which I assure you I will alleviate. I promise you that.”
“Kneel before me.” he motioned me with his fat little hand. I did as he asked.
As he pressed his palm to my forehead, I closed my eyes. “Consider the revelation of the reconciliation of paradoxes. This is my gift to you as you are your mother's gift to me.”
Suddenly, I actually felt the electrical impulses in my brain reroute to parts unknown. My heart beat in overdrive to allow maximum blood flow through my head. The chaos was put into order through my willing to know. It was exhilarating. The more I wished to know the more I knew my body was disintegrating at its most basic levels. I surrendered myself completely to the rush as I now knew I could never die.
I was transported through the aether away from the Earth's divinity, making the journey from the mother planet to the inner confines of Saturn, by way of a magnificent vortex at its north pole, in a matter of minutes. I came to know that without Saturn there would be no such thing as time. And with the absence of time comes the absence of experience. I reside in the stillness of time where my experience would be incomprehensible to you.
Now a being of pure energy, I understand that I am now subject to the most rigid of natural laws as my free will had been stripped while passing through the Earth's stratosphere. I now know that Earth is but a pinpoint in eternity where heaven had been allowed to shine through. It is impossible to be any closer to God, as we exist within it and can never escape. Hell reigns supreme within the mind of God, which is the most sacred paradox to any being.
Even if I could, I would hold no ill judgements toward my mother. It was her, after all, who raised me to be a most capable sacrificial lamb. I was reared to have such a thirst for knowledge that when the time came for the young god of time to collect my soul, I would submit with the least amount of resistance. Altinius had been so satisfied with my mother's gift to him that he allowed me the place of an exalted hell and provided me with a connection to my mother through automatic writing.
I love you mommy! :P
Submitted October 14, 2018 at 01:15AM by PTolver https://ift.tt/2IXd4SI
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