Author Topic: The Algophilist  (Read 2034 times)

Offline Mohauk

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The Algophilist
« on: August 22, 2009, 09:42:17 AM »
...or 'The Pleonasms of Men and Their Many Deviations'

The myopic queasings of my mind throb at my temples irritatingly, causing me to flick a hand at my face, rather as one might to dislodge a mosquito or tsetse, but to no avail, naturally. That gift has long been absent from my fingers.

The girl passing me on the beach is plain, certainly, but willing in the sultry eyes she pins on my lapel. A sneer dislodges her interest. How quickly ignorance of the phrases of this world, so bizarre to a newcomer, falls away with experience. Beach girls. Quaint and affected but no doubt a neccessary terminology with which to warn those who arrive here, innocent as children, innocent of their own dreaful fate. The lumps protruding through her cloth and leather speak of salt, and so there might be less danger than normal. But I have none of the white on me, and the whisperers say that the beach girls can harvest some low-grade substance from blood when crystallised.

More spasming thoughts, like firecrackers behind my eyelids, and another lazy flick of my hand. Sparking from one side of my head to the other. Useless, painful, improbable. As improbable as any concept of thought or self. What a cruel joke that fate decided to let the universe not only scream itself into existence, but that every single one in a million chance should be fulfilled and the notion of self be born. There is nothing more to be achieved except a decline and a burning self destruction. Perhaps it has already begun while I am trapped here, out of time. The destruction of existence and the end of life and death. Improbable.

Perhaps indulging the wench might not have been such a bad idea. My head is throbbing quite uncontrollably now, and the air is full of spray and agonising breezes. The sand retreats beneath my feet then holds me for a second, cunning and undefatigable in its multiplicity. But each grain is atoms, as each man is grains of sand.

The beach seems to be boring me, and I have no inclination towards boredom tonight. And indeed it is already night, the moon having died its deaths, the only light the vague flickers that form the ever-present circle of Chalcedon's dominant neighbour as it blocks the sorrel radiance of the sun. Night is not particularly dark here - even the vaguest reflections of that blazing orb can give fair illumination when it hangs so close. Another strangeness of the universe, that neighbouring Granve shields the life that flourishes here. Flourishes in a state of horror for sentients, but flourishes nontheless, shielded from the scouring heats of the choleric Goye Star. And yet without the lights that reflect more lustrously and with less malign of intent from the gentle moon, the light itself would not exist on this otherwise cold, dead pebble.

Passing a wretched colporteur as I tread the path back towards the town, and being somewhat flimsy in nature, I purchase a simple text of some sort, not deigning to hope that the creature's wild babblings might with suitable brevity describe his faith product. Though my gift is dead, the cruellest fact is ever that it left me with the whisper of what might be done had my adolescent contumacy and rebellious lust not killed it. Ever I see what accomplishments I might had made had the Amor d'Angoisse not taken a hold of my frail inconstancy, what pains I might have eased. The madness of this scripture-peddler sussurates its very essence to me, so easily knitted and reformed if I only had the hands I once did.

The thought enrages me beyond what would have been appropriate, and, feeling the urge to strike and engrave my presence upon the poor man's fleshes, to drink his humours, I pace swiftly on, dropping my hurriedly retrieved coins upon the soft, sucking sand. I feel a savage pleasure in the disgressions in his eyes when I look back to ensure he has seen the gesture. A pride, the pride of the whipped, but buried deeper the total knowledge that he will eventually stoop and retrieve the pittance which might mean the difference between life and death. Somehow I hate the wretched creature for that thought, because it defines the one truth of the universe - his survival will overpower his pride, and he is no more than a scavenging rat, vermin like us all.
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting...