The Runner

There is change, so much change, but it carries with it the notes of the past. Instructions on how to keep things orderly, seemingly the same, replace a drastic new method of being for slight iteration. The silence is that of a screaming child as the world walks past it, around it, through it.

The monuments are falling down, stone and steel in the dust of creation speak their names as whispers, knowing fully that time cares not for their titles, their past, and their intentions. The memories are a currency that can’t function any longer than now and then, it can’t carry over into that which has yet to exist.

Celluloid and stone differ only in life spans.

The ground below is struck with immense weight. The figure looks upon a blighted world, and he begins to run.

In the wake of his steps, life and song erupt. Different voices and faces, colors so bright they threaten to outshine the sun. He keeps running, and the trail widens, as though a vast wake spreading in his shadow.

The divergence soon carries itself further, it wanders past the wake and into the blight, it sees devastation, and begins to sow the seeds of birth. Shapes and forms, figures that begin to stand on their own, they too start to run, setting in motion the spread of more color, more sound.

But after a span of time, they falter, they trip, they fall. They do not act as though the figure that started it all. They do not keep up their pace. They begin to ponder different things; they remain stationary and construct their homes.

Eventually, the wake seems like a single trail again, wide enough only to know itself and nothing else of what lay around it. The figure runs, he keeps running.

The spots on the ground where the little ones fell grows larger, it expands slightly, but is cautious, and refuses to merge with the color or sound. It is static, cold, and were it not for the skittering forms inside, and the few lights amongst it, you could think of it just as you would the blight around the trail.

The heroes, the villains, the saints, the sinners, the constructs of creative boredom and allegiance, they dot the trail, and a line forms around them. The figure keeps running, never looking behind him to see what has become of his wake. He keeps running.

Towers of sand and rubble, eyes of jealousy and hatred, misguided heroes with no sense of anyone but themselves, and they begin to fight over the wake. They look out upon where they once ran, and they refuse to partake of the nothingness that eagerly awaits them. They congeal into something terrible and beautiful in its uniformity. But there is no more color, no more sound.

The wake of the figure becomes deathly still, silent… and then, at the pin drop, or the gusting of the wind… fire. To cleanse, to purify, to remove, to alter? Fire. It covers the trail, it expands, it covers the fields of color and sound like a blanket.

The figure keeps running. He hasn’t looked back at any moment, and he never shall. What is left behind him is an ever changing landscape, one that grows from his steps, and eventually burns itself into twilight, becoming part of the blight once again.

He did not make this place so empty, he did not force the hand of any being, past or present. He thinks of none of these things. He rarely even glances at the landscape of nothing before him. He just keeps running.

Each step, a new life. Each step, a thousand deaths. Those that crawl from his steps run outwards into the path of nothing, trying to emulate that from whence they came. They do not see that he is beyond them, that he still runs. They do not look forward down the trail.

Eventually, the flame will consume them all, and return them to the dust once again, to the stillness of the blight. Eventually, the figure will run over the same patches of nothing again, and repeat it all once more, as the trail burns and grows behind him. It matters not to him if he has traversed this expanse a billion times over… he just keeps running.

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