There’s a rumour that every once in a while, the earth ceases to turn. Every person, every building, every forest ceases to exist as anything more than a painting. The wind stops, the sun dims. The silence grows stale, without the endless whirring of a billion minds, day after day after day after tiring day.
Every once in a while, the earth gets tired of carrying the collective trauma of a billion people who are hurting, breaking, aching – living as if this is the only way to exist, trapped on mesh with their toes digging through the floor.
Every once in a while, the earth breaks down under the silent tears that seep into it, day after day, filling up the oceans with salt. The birds can smell the misery as they circle higher and higher to escape the intoxication of despair spreading through the air as if each gust of wind is a wildfire and each cloud a young tree.
To exist is to hurt, and no one knows this better than mother earth, laboring under the burden of existence since longer than the mind can fathom or the consciousness can encompass.
The seas are full of bodies who have hurled themselves into the water. The concrete is painted crimson and the heat rising off it in waves smells faintly of rust.
A billion skins crawl, hairs standing on end, as they look around for what they know they feel, but doubt nevertheless. In a flash, it is over.
Rivers of blood.
And finally, peace.
Title: Fink. Perfect Darkness.