The Eternal Party

[Smoketheknight 285]

Spoiler

 

 

 

The Eternal Party

 

 

 

The fear of the dark. It is but a primordial instinct, a body response from the imminent danger that presents all that feels unknown. An abandoned ruin, a hidden tunnel leading to a place of utter emptiness, the moment you find yourself  lost around dimmed foliage, you tilt your head then you see it, shrouded by the cloak of night. When you gaze upon the obscurity, a chilling sensation traverses through the hoarder of such feelings, it is known how they paralyze, and just like that, they let themselves be persuaded by the panic.

 

But such as any fear, it is irrational.

 

Darkness, as mean, as cruel as it might sound, is comparable to the absence of light. Just behind that eerie silence, stepping further through that black that all covers, and which you can only glance at one part at a time. There is room for the unexpected, a place, a friend, a window of opportunity for those wise enough to peek through the curtain that mortalkind, the gods itself purposely put in their way. Life goes around a lot, so it is not crazy to think that by refusing the constructs of mind that your fear creates, you might just be face-to-face with what you were pursuing, all this time.

 

For it is nothing to fear.

 

Exactly one of those shady places, that even though it follows all standards to be considered of bad omen, their foundations lie upon a purpose far more enriching, more noble. They shall make themselves be seen, and they will surely find you, but only a few know where to find them, and the answer lies in the far north, deep in the barren, snowy wastelands of Rimeglen.

 

It is of no importance, no relevance to the amount of tales they may have heard, the statements that stand true, and those who were exaggerated and unscrambled. Once you place your feet inside, once you see what I see, it shall all make sense. Our haven, where the constant buzzling of the lights appear overshadowed by the everlasting gaiety that never reaches the dusk, rooms crafted by dozens of creative minds with immortal time on their hands. Every crossing is a rabbit hole towards someone’s soul, their ideas, their desires, but also their insecurities, the things that upsets them. It is indeed a place where your imagination can run wild.

 

And they call it, The Meat Circus.

 

 

 

 

 

From the deepest halls of the carnival, It is where I rejoice upon their vibrant scenes, an endless visual lexicon. We are able to contemplate around one million colors, yet these walls seem to surpass even the limits of the light spectrum. One should simply accept the chaos that comes from within, and simply enjoy their slice of cake, as they pursue their constant enjoyment of the arts. My case, however, derived greatly, as I could not help but ponder, and ponder I did, from a dilemma that I saw impossible to resolve. 

 

As much comfort as our canvas provides, it is still surrounded by the harsh reality, a future without hope nor purpose contemplated by The Black Doctrine, and from which every performer, artist, and jester shall devote themselves to it, as The Witch King’s entertainers. What was The Circus, a place so fragile, so small, after the great scheme of things? Yet, of course, I could have simply turned my head around, looked elsewhere, for the show must keep running. But then what would distinguish us from mortals, those who go through their lives without second thought, if I did not care to question mine? An answer might lay somewhere, either behind those curtains when the spectacle is close to its end, or the mere words of the script which I put my effort into memorizing, over and over again.

 

And so, the response was revealed to me.

 

It was in those passages where I reached upon a door to one of these worlds. A vision towards a singular landscape reached to my eyesockets, a quiet green field, expanding indefinetly towards the horizon and the display of a cyan blue sky resonating all above it. A flock of birds, seemingly frozen in time, as this was but the perfect encapsulation of such a perfect day. The moment in time where you might lay above its infinite surface, the strands slip through your fingers as you find yourself tiny evermore, but also do your problems, your worries.

 

A place to inspire peace, where emptiness reigns above all things, yet I found it so vivid. As they stood, far away, but still attainable for my vision, a cattle of jesters in meeting. It was quite hard to observe just one, as they intertwined between each other in an everlasting motion, so the colorful ribbons that guided every single one of them together, towards the pole rising in the middle of it. A majestic dance, the astonishing display of colors, such as everyone might expect from the eternal souls that populate this multicolor realm. As the performance followed its course, one of the jesters began to sing, and so did everyone in a choir, it seems its intervention might have motivated them greatly, to inspire their fellow entertainers evermore. With that, they soon would lead the baton, a self-proclaimed director guiding every movement in choreography. Would this jester raise their arm, they comply. would this jester stomp their feet, they comply. Would this jester turn to themselves, they indeed, complied, from which they would now face each other, seemingly stopping their dance as to stare at their companion for a time longer than I could count. I was just a spectator, but I still could realize the grim feeling among the watchers,  the jovial mood that accompanied everyone that day, devolved into expressions of mad and enraged wrath. 

 

 

That. . . is when the real party began.

 

It was just a matter of time before someone threw the first stone, I was aware of this, yet I did not intervene. You may blame my morbid curiosity, but perhaps, I am simply not fond of interrupting a scene when this unfolds.  Nevertheless, my assumptions became true, the moment the director shoved its gloves into their eyesockets. There was not a scream, nor a complaint, only the bubbling sound of the blood tracing down the grass, some rotten eyeballs now squished far from recognition. The real thing arrived right after, for as if it was all part of the same premeditated symphony, every single one of the jesters indulged into their own personal carnage. Flesh tearing apart, bones crumbling down as to fertilize the grass below, blood channeling into rivers. It was all that would follow.

 

They laughed.

 

They chuckled, they chortled and laughed some more. Why wouldn’t they? They were not going anywhere, and even if they did, there would be brush strokes all over The Circus for them to be remembered, that is the way things go, such is the blessing they were offered. And soon enough, there would be no mouths left to laugh, the fields grew quiet again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As an actor arriving late to an audition, it is that I stepped in, to assess the damage that chaos unraveled. It was not the lifeless corpses what shocked me, but the scenery. Somehow, the plains, the unreachable countryside, it had blossomed into a look no one could have ever thought of. It was the unalived performers, that with every drop, every stain of blood, they had transformed this reality into something different: a rose field. Flowers stretching out to what the imagination cannot reach. Was this such a mere coincidence, or was it all part of their playing? Be that as it may, It was the cause for an instant revelation. The answer that I so profusely seeked.

 

We are the ones who built this world of fantasy. The ones responsible to keep The Circus alive, for it is a reflection of ourselves, and in the same way, a reflection of the world. We do not live at the expense of  reality, we circle over it, just like a merry-go-round. The Three Truths reveal a life devoid of everything that makes it worth living, yet The Meat Circus found their place, they stated a purpose. Because as long as there are poems to be written, as long as our bodies still respond for a dance, we will always return. 

 

 

 

And I think that is beautiful.

 

 

 

 

-Calfaxmalis’s Journal. Also known as The Last Laugh of The Witch King.

 

 

Spoiler

Hope you guys liked this short story! I was in the feel of writing about  The Meat Circus, along with showing their thoughts on The Witch Kingdom and their beliefs.

 

Stay silly, stay whimsy 💖

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Sr_Dimentio 586]

And together, we shall write poems and dance until our body crumbles into a mush of bones and gore on the ground... And then arise again... Beauty eternal.

 

 

Spoiler

 

Actually beautiful... Damn...

 

[Chimeraof1999 1187]

Deep in the dark crevices of Azuras sat a Darkstalker, whom shivered for no particular reason.

”I hate clowns.”