Below is a writing I submitted to a prompt about a piece of writing that contains no human characters. Since not accepted, I figured I’d share it here. Enjoy.
Opening:
Rieieieieieieieieieieieieiei—
Continuously, never ending. Piercing. This is existence. A sound. Ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing. High, never low. Seemingly—hopefully—leading to a final, low tone of conclusion. But it never comes. The air is filled with this sound, no, this vibration that provides a sound, a screech. Ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing. Make it stop.
It won’t stop. This is existence. This is what occupies space. And time, as it moves along and along and around and around and within and within, continuously ringing. High, never low. Piercing. Never ending.
Does the wind accompany? It does. But the wind just is. So too is lightning, thunder, rain. They just are. Nothing else. Sometimes they happen, sometimes they don’t. They exist within a ringing existence.
The soil has become soil again. Earth promising abundance. But to what end? What promise, what hope, doth this soil with abounding richness bring in such an existence? None. So it just lies there, untapped. What was once desired, has become nothing. A nothingness was brought about to remedy the nothingness of the soil. But what remains are remains upon new, lively soil.
Remains. A clue?
What happened here? A structure that reached high into the sky now only presenting half of its reach. The other half is there…and there…and even down there, buried, further enriching the soil. A building extending upward, succumbing to a downward realm.
What happened here? A great bowl, deserted, but flowing with energy’s past, blood-like even. The energy surrounds the bowl, becomes more intense within it. It longs to be experienced again but knows that it never will.
What happened here? A smaller structure, more intact than the first. A door, swinging back and forth with the wind, an augmenting creaking sound to the ringing existence; a sound more pleasant, less invasive. Another longing, this one just to be filled again. It won’t be. Its emptiness more expansive than a long and wide desert filled only with sand.
What happened here? Another structure pointing upward, this one intact. Pointed and sharp, a plea to Heaven. Inside are memories of music, flowing, simultaneously joyful and sorrowful, but above all worshipful. The seats are long, empty. Were they ever occupied; and even when, were they full?
Reeling away from this structure, existence presents a portion of land upon a plateau, these being yet more remains but of another sort. Numbers on stones, dashes. What happened here? will also not be answered. Beneath the stones lie potential, both achieved and unachieved, but will never strive again.
Rieieieieieieieieieieieieie
Make it stop, please make it stop.
It won’t. This is existence.
What about light? Darkness even? Do they accompany existence?
They do. But there are no promises here either. Like the wind and the lightening and the thunder and the rain, light and darkness also just are, repeating themselves over and over again for nothing. A senseless existence.
Why, then? If what happened can’t be answered, perhaps this can be. Even here there are no sure answers, only guesses. And the guesses can only be found in what remains, what’s already been displayed. The reel of time only depicts an existence that brings more questions than answers, more chaos and confusion than clarity.
Clarity. When sought poorly, confusion. When sought wrongly, chaos. When sought deviously, destruction. Existence: barren.
Is this so different?