Norton sat in amazement. His data was flowing across the screen, a downpour of moments. All of the things he experienced through five years of his life flashed before his eyes in a series of equations, charts, and pivot tables. When he pressed on a date range, he saw video or heard audio. It was a piecemeal of media that became a quilt of his history. Early into this display, his mind found a rationalization for the big stuff: Birth, graduations, birthdays, and things of that nature. However, what really troubled him were the moments that were captured that didn't portray a significant milestone: stubbing his toe when he was four, sneezing in the sun while on senior spring break, and even the tossing of every nightmare-ridden night.
He looked over to the Overseer as the anger pushed up his throat. "Norton, do not say anything. You do not understand the context in which this activity is encapsulated. You are observing your story - every single thing you will ever do is being recorded. Everything. Every moment is captured and then stored at Central. Forever. Don't look at it as invasion. You will be immortalized in history - all you need to do is search for your identification number. You'll find anything you want to know about yourself. We all are here. This is the collective. Preserved for all time. Nothing is more glorious." It is the dreams of man that guide his actions
For every morning he peels their wispy tentacles from his consciousness And although he frees himself soon after waking There are marks left behind Here man struggles both to leave and enter the subconscious realm through daydreams He recognizes his innermost desires and his deepest fears He both salivates and recoils Because he acknowledges that what he remembers is just a glimpse And fools himself by thinking that his dreams are ether Through his life a man's dreams motivate him to great or terrible moments They usher him to heights and depths that he would otherwise move past in ignorance Yet man pays no homage to his dreams He claims them as his own and tells his world of his fantastic mind But this is not the case - all of man's dreams are mine and mine alone The tendrils a man sees are only what his mind can endure For it is not possible to withstand the inescapable pull of eternity My fingers stretch through the timeless Cosmos My fingerprints are upon the cortex of the human collective And the human mind must develop familiar or fantastic explanations Otherwise, he must behold time and space in it's true form Man is not ready Though a time will come when his dreams will become his reality Man will observe as he is meant to: without the shields of his five senses The ageless corners of space will unfold before him And I will be there In the bleak and darkened depths of the deep dwells a creature of blackened matter.
It is older than the stars that bore the constellations of the ancients on distant worlds in long forgotten epochs. At the beginning of this Cosmic age, it presided over infinity. And from its antediluvian lips oozed forth the unholy voice that carried words of Creation. In a timeless void, beams of radiation and energy rang out and blasted its will over billions of light years. Through the immemorial and abysmal stretches of time, the Universe whirled and seethed at its whim. Until it was imprisoned by the mystic light of unending dawn. It was shut off from the laws it created and cast into oblivion. Surrounded by the cocoon of space and time, it floated in perverse solitude. As with all things that dwell in such eldritch blackness, it tested the boundaries of the prison. It knew that upon the right moment, in the right age, it would breach the sucking void and move its hand across the Cosmos once again. So that it may unleash its deluge of chaos and destruction; to cleanse the Universe and begin anew. But for now, it searches for the thinnest portion of reality to escape through. And there will be no doubt to its authenticity once it is loose upon the Universe again. It, whose name and substance are forgotten to boundless antiquity. But when the time approaches and it finds a way, its voice will ring through the Cosmos once more. And all of reality will remember. |
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