Timong Lightbringer - Hate, Disbelief, Hope [prose]

It does exist – and yet it doesn’t.

It always was – but they preferred to keep silence of its existence previously.

It calls for you as something delightful yet forbidden – but few ones have time to feel its true bitterness.

It is so much similar to the constructed Babel tower, yet more and more are willing to climb to its top.

It grows outside and inside of you invisibly, braiding with webs all corners of your soul. And that is why so many consider it as nonexistent.

Its stench seems fragrance from distance, and its fire – lovely illumination.

Practically no one came back from it. And those few who did were humans no more.

So much has been told about it … yet this does not reduce the number of its pilgrims.

It never lived – and that is why it doesn’t know such thing as death.

It has been born along with the human. Will it be extinguished before him ?

Yes, it looks like a massive city. But this is a Dead City.

A city of former love, now long since dead. A cemetery.

Graves, graves, graves …

Each of them is unique - one of a kind. But do corpses really need to be unique ?

Tombstones - and inscriptions, inscriptions, inscriptions...

“Linen washing is so bad … start delight yourself like mad”, - as though the first squeals.

“A goat he was – a goat he is, no more loving, cease, cease, cease. Perhaps I’ll now just kill him, rather, - he’s always mine, never another !”, - threatens with all possible force the second.

“For how much long, for how much long you’ll have me in the bed, my pong ?!” - overstrains in the silent exclamation to the unknown listener the third.

“From own husband I have pain … but is new lover better gain ?” - uncertainly-shy longs the forth.

“Without family we have a lot of joyful, shining staff … who didn’t want us is just shy, so let them rot and let them die !”, - as though gives orders to dead ones the fifth.

“You’re rather damned, never cool – I’ll rather die than marry, fool !”, - dives in hysterics the sixth.

“All women are silly, but I am – the queen ! I can go right and left in sin !”, - categorically assures the seven.

“The less we love the women shit, the more effortless we hit !”, - share his deadly wisdom the eight.

“You had betrayed, I saw token ! Keep silence now, my heart is broken !”, - chatters abstrusely the nine.

“No faith, no trust, no beg, my friend, but carry insults through heart’s land”, - calls for humility the tenth.

“Love is like a dream – yet dreams die. Just money help us reach the sky”, - is proud of his cost the eleventh.

“I love myself, and that is cool. To love the others? I’m not fool !”, - secretly admits the twelfth.

“Gods gave us love and paradise – stop lying now, just rise, rise, rise !”, - frankly raves the thirteenth.

Graves, graves, graves …

This is eternal cemetery.

Almost everyone comes here before taking his true place. He silently digs cold dead earth with his own hands, and so silently digs in himself.

The ones who came here died voluntary. And those risen from dead looks like humans no more.

No one knows if there are resurrected ones. But risen from dead often wander the streets of yet living cities. And it’s impossible to put the pain, tormenting them, into words.

There is a legend that those risen from dead can only be cured by the one who made them. But few resurrected ones know different truth.

They know the truth of the Alive City.

It does exist – and yet it doesn’t.

It always was – but they preferred to keep silence of its existence previously.

It first averts you as something intolerably bitter – but few ones have time to feel its true sweet.

It’s similar to an ancient mountain towering among lowlands, yet less and less are willing to climb to its top.

It grows outside and inside of you invisibly, lightening all corners of your soul. And that is why so many consider it as nonexistent.

Its fragrance seems stench from distance and illumination – as its fire.

Practically no one came back from it. And those few who did were humans no more.

So much has been told about it … yet this does not increase the number of its pilgrims.

It never died - and that is why it doesn’t know such thing as death.

It has been born long before the human.

Will he once remember it ?

One day this will happen.

Your prince on a white horse will once come to you, though you will not hear him. You will not notice him in human crowd, you will not open your doors when he will knock. You will not recognize him and let him enter, for you have not been waiting. True princes always come unexpectedly.

They need no heralds, announcing their arrival. They need no applause. Shouts of approval of others are not required for them. Even horses are necessary no more.

They always come on their own – with years of hard work and constant challenges they got used to rely only on own powers, they learnt to trust themselves. You will not hear them far off on knocking of hoofs of their dashing horses, you will never see them caracoling. They have left white horses far behind of themselves, for without them they can move faster. They have rejected a gilt harness and a well-cared mane, they have refused convenient saddles. Now they always come on their own.

For that reason you will not recognize him, you will pass by.

If they towered proudly over the others on their graceful horses – they would be too appreciable. But they need no applause.

If they raced you on their snow-white horses – you would never forget this short journey together. But they need no dependence on them.

If they have offered you to marry them – you could not refuse. But they want to see others being free.

They denied this greatness. The stepped down from their horses. They became small princes.

And with time they got lost in a big crowd.

That is why you will not recognize him, for you have not known him. For you knew only big princes – too big to once become small ones. That is why you always look above your head, hoping to see big ones and never noticing the small. They became useless.

And still they come. And still they continue to knock on the door of yours, knowing that those doors will not be opened – for there is nobody inside to do it anymore.

And still they hope that one day, lots of years after, you will remember that quiet knock you have heard so long ago, countless days before, but chosen not to open the door, for the unexpected visitor came in thunder-storm and you were too afraid to presoak your feet.

Yes, you will remember it once – and smile, having understood, what sort of traveller was on the road.

Seldom, very seldom they come to those who could open the doors - but doors still stand closed – for there is no one to open them from the inside.

They have not died out. They have not vanished.

It is you who have killed your princes.