A First-Person Perspective Exercise

I am walking through a tunnel of leaves, the wind a gentle caress that pushes my surroundings to and fro. There is a soft sound of music seeping through the green, stealing through the avenues unsealed. Direction is left to the wayside as forward pulls me on. I have no destination in sight--only onward, and upward.

The path twists in a faint spiral, carrying me to the apex of its aim.

Breaking free from the foliage, I find myself upon a summit of greens and blues. The clouds here are so hollow, it is as if they have only arrived there by necessity. There is no visible Sun from this point, only an even background of light to uphold the scene.

The music has elevated itself a touch, stirring the air to song. It is a flight of fancy on the molecules of atmosphere can be called to.

I move forward to explore.

I get the sensation of moving through a fog, though there is none to be seen. Maybe it is a kin of cloud that has settled upon this raised land. Perhaps it is that which wishes it were cloud, and thus dreams to fly.

The Earth is soft and amply lush. I can feel my feet leaving impressions behind.

The cliff approaches.

I approach it with the guard of fear and apprehension at my side. It takes little added courage to keep from crawling the rest of the way to the edge. I steel myself, and inch forward, arching my gaze towards and beyond the ceasement.

The clouds are much thicker below, deterring any judgement of depth. I tune my ears to the hidden ether. There is nothing there to sway me to reason.

I stop short.

I wait.

Time pushes on in its tangent way, and I turn my thoughts toward its intent for a collection of moments. Beyond the veil of my senses, a reality of the imagined echoes on.

*

The room is square. I am the nexus of its corners. Equally displaced among the atoms, I stand at attention.

(*

What is that sound?

*)

*

I am shaken to attention by a break in the clouds. An orb of purple and green bristles beyond the incision. The music has taken on a hushed gravity, as if in tune, but reserved to listen.

My lips quiver with unknown tension. Is it my reservation, or another, that keeps me from spilling forth with unfettered splendor?

Thought has lost its form of mind. I retreat one pace, watching. I sense no shiftings about; no suspicious thrashings to sway me to unrelentant terror.

I take another step, and hear it come. There is no drive in volume, but the surfacing of a whisper. Its words are the recital of a flatline, and terror arrives in the form of a spark.

It is the kin of madness that accompanies the following step. The words are driven a mite higher, and the force of change is enough to shatter my doubts.

I cover my ears and embrace the impossible. I begin to run.

*

Pressure assails my hands like the skittering of a thousand insects. As I take off down the pathway, the pressure is lost in the slapping of foliage, which now seems to be closing in on me. I hope my desperate sprint will be enough to carry me home.

*

Then--

A shattering of color reveals a dominion of white.

And sounds.

Awful sounds.

The walls are defied in a tasteless array as hellfire is rained down upon me.

But that voice is gone.

Somewhere.

For now.