Dimensions of Hell

     She sits while grinding her teeth, watching the monitor flicker while typing her words. Humanity, for whatever purpose, fails to see the truth in life. Dubbing themselves as "intelligent" life is a bitter arrogance doomed to drive the lot of them back into pits of darkness. Where the savages go to breed possibility blazes forth on the brow of despair.

    Hanging her head she resides in reality. It is a reality forsaken by most since fear is their greatest lover. Days and night bleed into one another like vicious slashes across flesh. (Tiny little cuts Mother larger ones. Watch as crimson lines birth tiny beads that wiggle and drip.) It is nothing important...just wasted fluid bound to dry up one day due to the obvious waiting monster lurking in the future shadows.

     Heartaches bestow a vivid plan. Before her eyes it flashes detailed measures. Mother and Father were creators drowned in hatred for one another. Love, a trick or a nuisance, begs to be buried among the frightful forgotten. Hearts who swell with the lie are hearts bound to this mortal coil. Starving information seeks a lot hole and she straightens. Again her back is pinched by agony. She leans forward, her throat a tunnel of raw ache, and with palms pressed against the hand rests of her keyboard she casts a gaze to her left.

      In the end humans are nothing more than rotting slabs of flesh in the ground. Like most of nature's inventions, humans are recycled. There cannot be life without death and death cannot exist without life. The two are married in a sadistic ploy to keep balance. Perhaps though Darwin was right. Perhaps one day humans evolve into something greater. Perhaps they learn the secrets of "eternal life" and make death a memory. Does that raise the possibility of infinity being crowded? Even galaxies succumb to death sooner or later. Stars burn up, break apart and make room for more stars to be born.

     Damn it all to some dimension of possible hell. She turns away. Exhausted she fishes for her sandals in the dark and slinks away to entertain an action that most certainly guarantees her human. She lay down next to her October and closes her eyes. Peace may find her for just one more night, but the future is a fate unwritten and unavoidable.

     Devils harbor clever images upon her closed eyelids. She bares no truth to the fraction of doubt subjected along the coast of sleep and ever still she frequents possibility as the blankets mold to her shape.

      Though she views the midnight world through mere slits she is aware of shadows as they snake along heightening walls and a stretching ceiling overhead. Perhaps uncertainty is her hell as it propels her into a endless universe of nagging perplexity.