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The ORB
(part 2) “sounds.” Dreaming Gate #1
It wouldn’t serve me in the long term.
And now I can remember why the hell it wouldn’t, I look down at my feet, bare in the weird half dead, wind scorched grass. I can see my toes moving…wiggling, but I can’t quite feel them but I can feel my eyes widening in remembrance and, as I remember I can begin to feel my toes-feel them wiggling, feel them more and know that I’m doing it. that I am moving them. I remember that I am asleep somewhere far away.
What part of me is asleep I cannot quite discern, logically it cant be my body that is asleep somewhere distant because I am feeling it here, looking at it’s parts moving. I blink my eyes quickly and see the graveyard landscape strobe in the weird half life lit light. I absolutely know that I am here and yet I also know that somewhere far away something of me is dead to the world, wrapped in a blanket deep in the dark of the night.
There is a sound nearby that startles me away from my quarrelsome self reverie of question, a rasping sound like glass that seems to scrape slowly across the planes of rough hewn stone. A purposeful sound.
The sonics of this strange city of cemetery are warped beyond description. Certain sounds seem to linger and then end abruptly and others just about as if they have no sense of time, these sound they have forgotten that time is a viable and practical dimension…for some things; I’d rather not subject my ears to the endless chime of a bell for all eternity after it has been stricken.
I wonder then if that may be what that weird white noise could be, the continuous whispers of a sound that had been issues aeons ago. Maybe even a breath. I listen closely but the diffused ound is maddening, for in fact is seems I can hear a multitude of voices whispering in rising and falling volume… though never comprehensible at all.
I shake off the feeling of dread as the scraping catches my attention again, only closer this time and on my left.
I look at the crypt that sits on a small plot of ground away from the pathway, a glittering white flash of color, a wisp of something. almost faster than my eye could register retreats beyond its furthest corner. The then issues a reverberating hollow screech far in the distance from behind me. I close my eyes, rooted to the spot and grit my teeth. Good gods this is tense, stress. Rubber-bands pulled to the breaking point, my nerves.
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~ “The first 15 minutes takes … a long time. But the second 15 minutes takes … forever!” ~Edie Sedgwick 1966.
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