Progress

Since their inception, they were never quite the same. They seemed all the less lifelike, stricken with decay. They had been envisioned, glorified. Someone should have realized the impossibility of meeting such standards. It was the enthrallment that did them in, the intense rapture that can only be associated with the boundless figuring of the imagination, because let's face it, nothing real is worth having. And as creation at its finest, they walked upon all creation that preceded them. Celebrated for absolutely nothing but their mere existence. But the fascination passed. Useless, they were regarded. We can do better, the creators thought. And with that, the rapturous bright flash that had accompanied their arrival into existence flickered for only a moment, and disappeared forever, casting them into the shadows of memory, segregated from their enlightened creators. And from then on, they could never be considered alive. They were fantasy things, trapped by the demeaning confines of reality. People forgot, and moved onto newer, bigger, better things. They, however, were left with the permanence of an unwanted existence. And so they marched on into the void that they were forced to carve out for themselves, monsters, outcasts, garbage: surviving tangibles of unwanted dreams.

Reviews

[Juan Santana]

This is insane. I love just about every aspect of your writing-from your vocabulary to the very way you kept me involved through the entire paragraph, just hanging on the wonder of what these mysterious things could be! Dreams. Such a deep twist on something so common and overlooked.

Nice :)