Reads like this one about what happens when someone can no longer reach. When the arms stop trying.
Hollow Unhuman
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Gazing into infinity, reaching for it, his arms could never stretch far enough. The helplessness in his eyes began to drain away, like water receding after flooding a hollow. Soon, not even the…
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Reads like this one about what happens when someone can no longer reach. When the arms stop trying.
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Gazing into infinity, reaching for it, his arms could never stretch far enough. The helplessness in his eyes began to drain away, like water receding after flooding a hollow. Soon, not even the ocean born of waterfalls remained—no trace of it in his fractured eyes, emptied by an unrelenting drought.
It hurts to know he is condemned to an immovable prison disguised as life. It hurts to know that even infinity would not make him happy. It hurts, and nothing soothes it, and still he carries on like one who has spent years pushing an enormous stone, until the stone grows small and finally evaporates, along with the vessel that holds the soul.
With cracked skin and a barren gaze, he watches the cosmos reflected in a puddle.
And he thinks that, if he were the cosmos, he would be looking down at that puddle, longing to be the cracked vessel staring back.
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Reads like this one about what happens when someone can no longer reach. When the arms stop trying.
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That reversal at the end, where he becomes the puddle looking up instead of down. It reads like you already know what breaks this kind of prison. The crack in the skin matters. He's still the vessel. I think this will stay with me.
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That image of the cosmos reflected in a puddle. That reversal at the end hit me.
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