"The walls of this room around me rip, light seeping in from the cracks like blood from a weeping wound. The room's walls continue to bend and break and shatter and split and rift and rent. A horror this is, the room is collapsing, but I have been here before. I know this place.
So many tears. They envelope themselves until the divisions are no longer definable. The walls are covered with them, so much so that they are merely trans-lucent, like a flowing river, its shimmering currents blurring the image below its surface. The room is illuminated.
The objects in my room, seem to fall under this spell, this...transformation of solidity. It infects everything. Spreads to its allies, as a man spreads disease by unknowing handshakes between friends. My desk, paintings and portraits, pictures of my family...my few friends. All dissolve to dust in my eyes.
I climb from my bed, it looks unaffected, a raft. Beneath my feet the floor too has become contaminated with this seed. It ripples beneath me like small waves...but I do not see the rooms below. That is new. I look to the walls around me, they seem to be... melting? No, running, that is better. It looks like sand being blown across a desert, rolling and flowing, spreading out and joining its sisters. Becoming again, one of the unknown, unnumbered, unseen.
My bed feels the need to follow suit, for freedom. Infinitesimal fractures across its being. A being? Why and how can it be classed as a being?...a question for another time perhaps. Though I have been here before, I have never seen this. I am caught up in this storm. No grey clouds are above, where my ceiling should be. They are white, a colour rarely found unblemished. Framed in clear blue. I have never seen these things, only in pictures.
Is white a colour? Is it not just...what is it if it is not a colour? A canvas? The beginning? A reminder of what things started from?
Again, too many questions, I must hush my mind, I must focus on this.
The room has almost dissolved. Only the last remnants of matter under my toes and heels. Where do I go from here? I ask the wind. What happens after my plain has been washed away? All I can see are clear skies and clouds. How wonderful a weather forecast that would be.
I am almost out of standing room. Below me is only air and smoke and the rest of the city. Nevertheless, the city does not look to be immune. I can see the buildings and factories and power plants and roads, all sinking to their origin the same way my room and the block it was in has. All I can see in their place is brown, sticky, greasy, polluted mud, and the rivers that run through the city, weaving their way through it all. I say through, but most run under the city, space as always, is a valuable commodity.
A change has begun. This ocean of mud seems to be turning cleaner. Patches of green springing out from the ground, as if wound-up springs had been unleashed. It is probably just some type of mould, some type of growth. Left long enough, everything goes rotten.
But, this green looks fresher, brighter...stronger. What is it? What is all of this? What is happening here? And why am I the only viewer? I look to my feet. Nothing remains. I am floating. Now I am just reminded of cartoons I have seen.
The way the dog always looks at the screen before falling, its neck stretching then pinging back to follow its body.
I'm glad this isn't a cartoon.
And he wished it wasn't the whole way down."
