The Bones of Time

The Bones of Time

October 11, 2021 0 By Anton

‘I remember, your soft and wrinkled skin over which the years of life have passed and thin layers of white dust from the boulders of the old mills have settled.’

‘I remember, how you used to laugh at my jokes and how my chest filled with joy at the sight of your smile.’

A blue ocean extends far into the horizon. The different levels of depth appear as brighter and darker spots of blue on the surface of the water.

Above the ocean, a clear sky of a lighter shade of blue is separated from the earthly liquid by a foggy white line of a horizon that has no end to the right and no end to the left.

An old man dressed in worn ivory and cream linen clothes sits outside his small hut made of white rock, situated at the edge of a lonely beach in Spain. Behind him, his village, all white and aged, lies silent, empty.

‘I remember, when you told me that the diagrams of time are no use to you for in your mind structure is none.’

‘I remember, you saying to the children that the word is lost on you.’

‘I remember, the future that never came but still went by slowly in a blink of an eye.’

The man’s tired grey eyes stare into the distance. Nothing is there but the illusion of a bond. He sees something which we cannot, a world which is hidden from us, modern people. The man is like one of those old souls that seem to be connected with the primordial roots of all humanity: the shattered link between our hearts and that which lies beyond our finger tips.

‘I remember, it was 1956 and we rode motorcycles through California before moving to Europe to see the origins of civilisation collapse into nihilism.’

‘I remember, the forests full of pine trees and the lake in which we swam naked under the approaching night; how you called my name from beneath the water, and I turned away from you and moved my gaze towards the skyscrapers of tomorrow.’

The man rotates his head to the right, to watch a seagull dive into the ocean. A small splash in the distance followed by a warm breeze that gently blows his linen shirt.

A thick layer of grey dust covers the man’s bare feet. As he moves them on the rough sand, a soft crunch echoes on the beach, but there is nobody there to hear it.

‘I remember, it was 1989 and they shot at us with burning metal and ran us over with tanks, shattering our bodies but not our souls.’

‘I remember, the hope in our hearts, the hunger for sacrifice, the desperate need for belonging; oh, why were we homeless when we were surrounded by all those buildings?’

The man’s house is the last home of his village. He is the last one to carry with him the right ways of the old sages. Now, there are new ways of doing things and his kind, the last of humans with souls, has died out: evolution has won the fight.

‘I remember, how sweet you called me to join you in the ocean and sink deep into our dreams where shepherds were free and the land was wild.’

‘I remember, how I told you that we would never say goodbye to each other, that death has no sting and that the eternal will shine through our rib cages buried beneath all the earth’s gold.’

A gust of wind. Another seagull dives into the ocean. It doesn’t return to the surface: Erebus has devoured the bird and with it the entire history of the old world of angelic chants and barbaric faith in the limits of the human mind.

The man is now gone. He has vanished, dissolving into the last bones of time. The village is no longer empty and silent, but dead.

In the distance, above the ocean, a shiny airplane traverses the deep, blue water, leaving behind a white chemtrail on the clear sky.