Anvoice
11-23-2007, 06:06 PM
Your skin is burning all over; sweat runts across your entire body mixing with the oozing blood and the intolerable heat, a feel of molten iron your eyes. You cannot tell if they are open or closed; there is nothing to see in the darkness, nor is their sound other than your ragged breath and the pounding of your heart, which you can no longer perceive since you have heard nothing else for so long. The scarcity of air obscures your thoughts and sense even more, but it does not save you from this deplorable agony. Because even though only the darkness permeates the sarcophagus, and your eyes are as useless as your immobile hands, you do not need to see; the spikes piercing your body from every direction, reminding of their presence with every tremor of your fatigued body. There are dozens of them, and every one has become a part of your being so that you might as well be seeing them all in bright daylight. They are masterfully positioned: not even one is transfixing any of your vital organs, so death is hardly a possibility. Every one of them burrows deep into your flesh, shredding meat and bone mercilessly. What remains of your consciousness shudders in fear at the steel monster inside your body, deadly yet now vital to you as well; for should the spikes be removed, no amount of treatment will save you from bleeding out completely. Not that any will be provided for you…
The figures behind the thick wall of the sarcophagus eagerly wait. They know that the wicked must be punished, and rejoice in their justice. By entombing you inside, they fill their otherwise vain lives with purpose, imbibing your blood and suffering with unquenchable pleasure. The messiahs of righteousness, they have no place in the sarcophagus, for they committed no wrong: you being wrecked inside while they are free and delivering holy judgment outside is a tacit testimony to that. They are the seekers of truth and light, vanquishers of evil who have no idea that they should plunge a dagger deep into their own heart to truly kill it. They cannot see the shadow that the sarcophagus always casts on them starkly, which could not be expunged if the sun itself descended into the grim dungeons. They can never see the shadow, much like deaf men shrouded in silence who imagine themselves surrounded by the most beautiful music, until the walls tumble down on them without their noticing. So will these figures bask in false illumination, firmly believing that your darkness is isolated from their beautiful light, but the shadow that is the absence of light will always remain; the one consumed by darkness is then able to see the truth. The figures outside are always basking in their light.
The figures behind the thick wall of the sarcophagus eagerly wait. They know that the wicked must be punished, and rejoice in their justice. By entombing you inside, they fill their otherwise vain lives with purpose, imbibing your blood and suffering with unquenchable pleasure. The messiahs of righteousness, they have no place in the sarcophagus, for they committed no wrong: you being wrecked inside while they are free and delivering holy judgment outside is a tacit testimony to that. They are the seekers of truth and light, vanquishers of evil who have no idea that they should plunge a dagger deep into their own heart to truly kill it. They cannot see the shadow that the sarcophagus always casts on them starkly, which could not be expunged if the sun itself descended into the grim dungeons. They can never see the shadow, much like deaf men shrouded in silence who imagine themselves surrounded by the most beautiful music, until the walls tumble down on them without their noticing. So will these figures bask in false illumination, firmly believing that your darkness is isolated from their beautiful light, but the shadow that is the absence of light will always remain; the one consumed by darkness is then able to see the truth. The figures outside are always basking in their light.