Brine, Rebirth

We’ve taken to calling them, “dust hymns.” It’s like they sing to us, no it's like they sing some divine and pure song to the heavens. It’s like they know, it’s like they know about us and with each chord they strike, they try to speak to us. They try desperately to tell us anything we may want to know. That we’ll be okay, that we’ll survive, or. Or anything. Anything hospitable from the wastes that we’re trapped in.

I don’t know, I don’t have any basis on that. I’m just writing what I see and what the estranged mind in my head spews onto the paper. It’s annoying writing only by firelight, but what else is there to do, wait for day? What day? The time that the moon isn’t in the sky?
I know that journals are not people, but neither is anything that we’ve seen so far. In fact, I read about a disorder that one can have that makes them believe that everyone has been replaced with a doppelganger. They call it a disorder, but what if it’s true? What if everyone around me isn’t who they say they are. Perhaps not a doppelganger, but some weird creature I haven’t seen yet? After all, how can you trust your comrades to watch your back in the dark? Janice WAS gone for a long time, and now she’s simply asleep without a care in the world. Maybe it’s just me being too cautious, being influenced by feeling so utterly alone. My friends cannot possibly be traitors. No, never, what could that spell for us anyway? Would this place simply seek to wipe us out?

 

 

The hymns continue to speak to me. They continue to speak to me, yes, I’ve finally decoded what they have to say, yes, the cipher is needed only found when one just opens their ears to the dark and listens to what it has to say. I haven’t slept, no, I’ve merely listened and heard what the hymns sing and yes they say their world is fine and good, even happy and glamorous when seen in the right light, but the ones still from the other one, the stupid, blasphemous world I came from wouldn’t understand. They would call me weird and sad and tell me to get some rest, they have before. They just don’t know, they don’t like the concerts and symphonies that the dust hymns offer. i said that they just have to listen but they didnt listen to me and they never will. they arent even real the darkness is in them now. i need to leave before they get me into trouble.

 

 

The hymns once asked me something. They asked me, “If you held a gun to the head of the one you hated the most, what would you say before you pulled the trigger?” And I answered them, my voice hoarse and tired by the end of my journey. It took me no less time than it takes a healthy chest to breathe, or a synapse to fire. I said, “Goodnight, cruel world