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Another short story-ish thingy!
The discovery
The Great Doctor, as often he was called, died terribly one day due to severe aches. Aches as inhuman as could still be called natural. Just a little beyond the line. Of course, the people around him knew not the purpose or the cause of such quiet reflexions that were expressed by times of huffing, heaving great quanities of air. Delighted, still, was the Great Doctor at his malady, for it seemed to him only he knew of it. No one suspected anything.
Its beginning, he reflected, was somewhere between five years to one month ago. It could have begun when he first stared at the Moon and noticed its complete plasticity, or when he last looked at it and beheld its beauty as a woman rouged with absurdities. Yes, he had concluded the truth lay in a simple sentence: "The Moon is naught but a dream."
As he walked around in his house, he'd feel his brain wanting to jump out, he felt his limbs try to thrash at his very soul, which lay lingering somewhere between his eyes and the sky, upholder of the Lie.
What could such a Truth bring to the world? Would it be a negative response he'd receive?
It seemed to make such sense, he mused, that it must have caused his body to shake with contempt. His senses refusing to accept this. His soul, he knew, waged war on his body. O, such bitter causality for his slow death. Slow, yes, for Time itself seemed to stop just to witness his suffering, just to lean on his staff, studying his crooked visage while the painful war raged inside him.
Why had he even had the idea? Five years ago, yes, he'd known, yet never dared to accept it with such resoluteness. He'd let the idea drift in his mind, he'd often go outside and just sit down on an open spot and let his eyes dance over the many little clues that would support his great discovery. The song they danced to --he didn't know-- was that of the wardrums slamming inside his body. His condition had started much further back, and he didn't know it. He didn't know it!
To study it would have been such a magnificent chore for the Great Doctor, for such rarity, such absurdity was just what he longed for. He wanted something unique, something mesmerizing, something which his eyes would be the first to endure its brilliance. Alas, his discovery only led to his sure doom.
Such a mystery, perhaps, as to why the Moon was how he had understood it to be. Why had its silvery gleam lost its luster in his eyes? Or rather, why had his eyes lost all will to see the truth? Or simply, why had his soul fought such a fierce battle, if it had always known --for Fate was its friend-- its own end? Why the mischief?
Surely, misery was the answer. Surely, old age was the answer. Surely, a demon held the answer. Surely, the demon was the Moon.
The discovery
The Great Doctor, as often he was called, died terribly one day due to severe aches. Aches as inhuman as could still be called natural. Just a little beyond the line. Of course, the people around him knew not the purpose or the cause of such quiet reflexions that were expressed by times of huffing, heaving great quanities of air. Delighted, still, was the Great Doctor at his malady, for it seemed to him only he knew of it. No one suspected anything.
Its beginning, he reflected, was somewhere between five years to one month ago. It could have begun when he first stared at the Moon and noticed its complete plasticity, or when he last looked at it and beheld its beauty as a woman rouged with absurdities. Yes, he had concluded the truth lay in a simple sentence: "The Moon is naught but a dream."
As he walked around in his house, he'd feel his brain wanting to jump out, he felt his limbs try to thrash at his very soul, which lay lingering somewhere between his eyes and the sky, upholder of the Lie.
What could such a Truth bring to the world? Would it be a negative response he'd receive?
It seemed to make such sense, he mused, that it must have caused his body to shake with contempt. His senses refusing to accept this. His soul, he knew, waged war on his body. O, such bitter causality for his slow death. Slow, yes, for Time itself seemed to stop just to witness his suffering, just to lean on his staff, studying his crooked visage while the painful war raged inside him.
Why had he even had the idea? Five years ago, yes, he'd known, yet never dared to accept it with such resoluteness. He'd let the idea drift in his mind, he'd often go outside and just sit down on an open spot and let his eyes dance over the many little clues that would support his great discovery. The song they danced to --he didn't know-- was that of the wardrums slamming inside his body. His condition had started much further back, and he didn't know it. He didn't know it!
To study it would have been such a magnificent chore for the Great Doctor, for such rarity, such absurdity was just what he longed for. He wanted something unique, something mesmerizing, something which his eyes would be the first to endure its brilliance. Alas, his discovery only led to his sure doom.
Such a mystery, perhaps, as to why the Moon was how he had understood it to be. Why had its silvery gleam lost its luster in his eyes? Or rather, why had his eyes lost all will to see the truth? Or simply, why had his soul fought such a fierce battle, if it had always known --for Fate was its friend-- its own end? Why the mischief?
Surely, misery was the answer. Surely, old age was the answer. Surely, a demon held the answer. Surely, the demon was the Moon.