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Do you remember when the world was full?
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It was dying, sure. But it was full.
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In the beginning of it all, the terrifying part was the chaos, the sheer cluster-fuck of it. It was never knowing when the corner you turned would greet you with a hundred hungry faces; it was running past the point where you couldn’t run anymore and your lungs burned and your legs went numb, but you never turned back to face the thunder of sloppy steps and piercing screams that chased and chased and never stopped. At first, everything was death and panic and chaos. And it was hauntingly frightening. For some, this nightmare came only after the initial terror of waking up to a room of death and limbs and what use to be your mom or dad, a sibling or APATHYCLYPSE
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lover, that person that wasn’t really a person anymore, rather some perverse sack of flesh and blood, lots of bright red, hot blood. For some, this was the first real terror. For others, it was the terror waiting to happen. In the beginning, these were our horrors, and our idea of unbearable seemed to come to life. It seemed solid and defined. But nothing compared to the coming torment, nothing compared to the silence.
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Such whelmi silenc
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overing ce... APATHYCLYPSE
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After the chasing, the hiding, the insurmountable deaths of both human and animal; months after the last ocean of blood washed over the streets, towns and backroads, after the hollowing, harrowing tradegies; all that remained was a deafening silence, a quiet, maddenning stillness. At first, it was blissful, a reprieve from the constant fight to survive, to overcome. But in the wake of the chaos, a darkness was born in each one of us, born of the struggle and pain. And it did not allow for the silence. We could not be left alone to our thoughts that were nothing more than the echoes of lost loved ones,
13 gruesome trials. It ate away at us, the sudden emptiness of our new world, the remains.
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Instead of hungry faces, corners met us with nothing. A deep and dark, tortuous nothing. The droning buzz of insects pained and grew wearisome, so loud and so constant you found yourself swatting the air with an incessant, empty determination, scratching your skin raw, licking your wrinkled lips away. Blinking more than was natural became an endless habit, as if the world you once knew would return to you when next you opened your eyes. The wind actually spoke, the only voice in a sea of silence. APATHYCLYPSE
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You could understand the tall swaying grasses on the hills. They spoke new songs that were before too lost in the rumble of life, in that time when the world was full. But the romanticism expected from this forced reconnection with nature was lost, shadowed by the unthinkable thought that this was it.
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The dreams and hopes of normal life—the life that seems so petty now—they were lost, leaving in their place a sinking feeling, an apathy; a sharp, rough realization that there was nothing to look forward to tomorrow or the next day, or the next, an endless nothingness. APATHYCLYPSE
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I opened my eyes to the white hot heat of the sun and that very terror of silence: just another day in an endless list of other days.
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© 2015
CAROLINA
PISTONE