The Olivine and Pyroxene Dictator

A Woman writes on Paper. That Paper rests on a Board. She writes a Poem.

In her inscription, she articulates her hatred for the Moon.

Her contours are lit with olive. The Moon blares white aggressively at the grass and the grass reflects this assault to highlight green the crinkles in her clothes and the bags under her eyes. Her fingers – offensively wielding a quill – and her forehead – drenched in a frigid sweat – are pale from the attack. She is an outlier to Nowhere. She glows, distinct from the green grass and the black sky, to become a beacon to a spectator. If someone existed to be her spectator, then that someone could easily discern her opposition to the Moon.

The Poem – a passionate but continuously tortured and unpunctuated haiku series – details:

Another one is gone

Another one and then another

For He is watching

Glistening Olivine

Commanding forth my melatonin

Controlling our tides

They drop into the night

And punished I am left alone

For I am awake

Luminescent Pyroxene

You are a goal for the many

Yet you suffocate our highest achievers

Why should I aim for you

Everyone has left me at your will

I cry tears that will join the tide you determine

I wish death upon you

You are a quarter of us

You can kill us all

I know that an abyss will kill me

I cry tears that will one day drown me

An abyss you occupy and a void you control

Every line’s contents deteriorate, and no one knows if it is her passion or her fatigue. No one tells her what to do, and yet she is commanded to write forever. Ironically, she is astutely aware of how it will end, although it will never end. She will write her first punctuated line, further destroying the broken metre. A period to close the Poem, and a comma for good measure, contributing a clause to her final thesis. 

Words will live forever, everything else ephemerally survives.

The Moon mocks her.

The sphere of ipseity and effulgence centralises himself in the sky. He contributes beauty to the abyss and makes scarce the hope that the Sun provides. If anyone looks at the midnight sky, every detail in their peripheral is selfishly owned by the Moon. Every crater of minerals is prominent, and every object that the Moon has drawn has scarred its surface.

The abyss beyond Nowhere is empty. The abyss would otherwise have no feature, if not for the Moon.

The Moon delights in the Woman’s immaterial burden, for he can never know the pain, for he is only material. The Moon has a material draw to all that he indulges, and he has a draw to some that he will never know. The Moon’s ignorance is something the Woman plans to decry, among much else. Poor Woman, your hands ache from the grip they have on your quill, and for the grip your fate has on you. Your exhale will soon be recycled by your inhale, for the universe will soon be consumed by your hate, it is not only you that will be consumed. Somehow the Moon’s words reverberate strongly in the vacuum of space and reach all but the Woman.

The Sun’s condescending mockery for the Woman can be deduced within the light he provides for the Moon, cementing their white incursion on her. The Sun provides light and warmth for all who accept it, but she has never accepted it. Nebulous, you are. Inchoate and rudimentary also. The Moon is unkind, and yet too kind to you. I have placed hope everywhere in your abyss. You have looked everywhere for it, and have failed to obtain it. The Sun regrets inducing the cycle that hosts the Moon, the Woman, the Board, the Paper, and the Poem. He has provided all but received nothing. The Sun’s words are vexing; he is the greatest power present in Nowhere, and yet he acknowledges the Woman and blesses her with his address. The Woman should be a commodity to the Sun.

The Sun’s acknowledgment of his commodities goes unanswered by the Woman. The Board fills the abyss with his own words, to prevent further disrespect to the Sun. Why don’t you mock me, may I please know? She can find hope, I cannot. I am to be worn away, to decompose, to rot, and to suffer. An eternity cannot save me. Every slur and punch written with the quill scars my grain. Why not mock me? Why not mock the Paper? Why not mock the Poem? Do I deserve what I experience?

The Sun does not respond.

The Board takes an eternity to realise that the Sun’s disregard for him is independently a mockery. The Sun never speaks again. All assume that he has forgotten his commodities. All assume that he has found peace. The Moon speaks, but only to the Woman, and her ears are closed. The Board is silent. The Board is shameful.

All that is left of the Board is his image. Wooden. The Woman’s knees and fingers have left grooves in the Board, and he too, like her, is highlighted by the Moon and the moonlit grass in juxtaposition.

Unbeknownst to the Board, the Paper is dead and has no soul to speak with. The Paper is unholy and far removed from its first iteration drawn by the Sun. The Poem has a soul and is jovial as such. The Poem is not ink, it is not the quill, and it is certainly not material. The Poem will be read, eventually, and as such will become a memory. Memory belongs to all, and all will exist for as long as the Poem cares to perceive. The Poem is a consequence of the Woman’s passion, as misplaced as it might be. The Poem lives and survives, unlike the Paper.

Somewhere beneath the grass of Nowhere, an anecic being hears all and chooses to remain silent. The invertebrate moves cautiously with its many and absent limbs. He leaves a path behind him – a consequence – as he wades through the underground soil. He may never know of the Sun or the Moon, and so the Woman is the most omnipotent to him. However, he too is a dictator of her fate. He will eat the Paper and the Board as detritus, and they shall metamorphose. He will create what she wants, for he is the Worm.

Eventually, a Bird will eat the Worm, so that he too will become detritus for another underground being. Some may call the Bird the only winner of fate when discussed alongside the Woman, the Moon, the Sun, the Board, the Paper, and the Worm. The Bird too will die, however, even if it does pass as the happiest of them all. The Poem will continue to exist alone and never be gifted death. 

Words will live forever, everything else ephemerally survives.