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princessdecay · 3 years ago

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o. prologue

qui n’avance pas, recule

Time is linear, a knowledge humanity swallowed without water, sliding down the throat rough with doubts under the gaze of teachers who had teachers who also had teachers with mouths spouting the lines in the same manner. It went down the stomach like fresh bread, and they sat back settled, content. Not asking questions because what good would they bring? Let time be simple, straight. A string pulled taut among the stars, the ends and beginnings unlearned, yet concrete and precise of the futures or pasts it weaved along.

Is it an illusion after all, Albert? Occuying space and putting it to null. Do we not all yearn to crumple its direction like a piece of white paper? Lay it bare on a wooden desk, pick the sides and fold so softly it does not make a sound. Make something beautiful, a swan origami, perhaps an airplane that slices through the summer breeze like lightning. Time, such inconsequential aspect of our lives that we cease to think about it for more than an hour. Everybody is on the footwork to accept that it moves only forward. Never looking back, it forgets the cracked road it leaves behind, always moving ahead. Always, always.

Until it doesn't. Until it does.

Fate is fickle, playful. A force complete in its being, writing the flow of undeniable sequence of everything. Swaying in the wind and dancing on the magnificent tapestry it sewed string by string, pulling us along. Since what are we but puppets? Walking with that piece of nylon leading us to our glorious purpose, or to a hell that could mean a limbo of nothingness. Destiny, we like to call it. To appease the hunger in the bottom of our bellies that every drop of tears, cascading blood inside our veins and the sweat pooling under our necks are all worth it. In the end, it was meant for something. Something great. Even in the least, something. All of us, we are fond of listing our fears, our inevitable demise, but all it usually coalesce into is the fear of being, and for it to mean absolutely nothing. Fighting tooth and nail to make one's existence matter because of a question unanswered, hoping someday it will be, and only for it to actually end up a question mark of a question mark, a never ending cycle. Well, isn't that just an exhaustion of a tragedy? Seeking for the point of doing anything in every nook and cranny, making no progress. It will be the same cacophany of sounds, digging through the tannel. Thunk, thunk, thunk. When will it change? When will the thunk became ting. A struck of gold. The enlightenment we have all been waiting for. Or if not, even a cement, or a wood, a rock. Even to just escape the same monotonous thunk, thunk, thunk.

Such a miserable affair if you think about it for too long, too deep, a step to drowning your own body into a well of realizations that could fill the lungs with wars raged against its own existence. Crisis pouring down, questions after questions. What is the point? What do I live for? It is very easy to push the brain into a breaking point. If all is meaningless, one could just pick up a gun on a whim and slide it gently into the mouth, tip to tongue, finger pressing the trigger in almost a caress. A bang, a halt, whatever is fitting to call it. So it is better to stop thinking, and live. Just live. For what? Well, you can decide. The world is vast, pluck anything from position and it'll mean an impossibility of the hand being empty.

Still, it can't be that orderly. Is it really that simple. Time is disciplined, yes, as it should be for us to not be devoured by a void scattered among the space.

Yet again it can't be helped, when chaos manifests itself.

It was a story for the ages, the Alexandrian Society and six people of immense power converging on one point. Paths crossing, entangling, all the individual ropes tying so smoothly together. Others wary, preferring to be alone with their selves and for some, it was unfathomable for personalities that are so different they repel one another. Six individuals with different anatomy of what made them who they are. It was an interesting spectacle, really. To watch it all go down. It had a beginning, flow of the plot never failing to entertain, then it reached the climax, and further through the lane, there is an end. It was perfect, done a little too well. So in the middle of it all, it is not really that surprising that a stretch of the fabric will deviate.

Six people, divisible twice or thrice. Each had their roles, subconciously knew what factor they will play in the long game and with the other. Here are the lines, the dialogues, said in the mind, in a dream, a scream in an empty room coming from a body being pulled into another slice of reality. It was all planned and written, a manuscript passed through the hands of dictations that us humanity can never really fathom in a perfect coherent sense.

Yet something shifted.

So there we go, it became a roulette, a wheel jumbled consisting questions of hows, doubts of whys, shaking of heads. It was staring at a picture sprinkled with hues not fitting together. Smudged lines in the painting, distored pixels in a screen. They say any grandeur channels an emotion from the cavity of the chest. It would be devastation in the face of the death inducing potion gliding through Juliet's throat, full of hope and naivete, only for Romeo to fall in the hands of impulse, his foolishness under the guise of grief and pulling them both down below. It would be awe as the shower of lights from fireworks spirals in raining reflection of the irisis at the peak of new year. Or a crippling yearning while one is exposed to beauty, hands clenching against the strong urge to possess it or to destroy it.

Callum Nova falling for Elizabeth Rhodes was never supposed to happen. A discombobulation in the matrix, anyone on a venture to understand is always doomed to fail. One blink, and another. An attemp to tilt the concept at any angle would always result an absolute lack of clarity.

It was pure chaos, and it will begin with a smile.

#the atlas six #ch: callum nova x libby rhodes #olivie blake

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