| Author: | Karim Lediwa | ISBN: | 1230001692556 |
| Publisher: | Karim Lediwa | Publication: | May 26, 2017 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Karim Lediwa |
| ISBN: | 1230001692556 |
| Publisher: | Karim Lediwa |
| Publication: | May 26, 2017 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
In "Realspace" the VORTEX has begun. How your world ends.......is up to you.
(Part 1 only; f***ull release: December)***
He entered the rapids now. Whitewater roiled by speed and wind painted the river. The rapidity of the flow was relentless. He was woozy and disoriented from the physicality of the river, as he convulsed and shook in every direction. Waves were pushed forward, building and rolling upwards to the sky, then swamping him from behind, as he slammed into the folded remnants of those in front. He saw jagged rocks everywhere, stabbing the waves ahead and to the sides. The shadows loomed directly above him now, he was passing through the shoot—soon to be spit out into the short, wide opening, then raked over the rocks at the lip of the falls….and, finally poured over the precipice, flushed straight down, shattering his body on the boulders below. Eventually, his ragged remains would break up, and whatever didn’t sink into the river, or deposit along the bank for bugs, fox, and other small animals, would flow languidly into the bay, leading into the ocean, to be picked over by parasites, water insects, and other sea life.
As he breached the narrow shoot, the roar of the falls just ahead shocked him; it screeched in one ear and out the other. Despite his anxiety, he still glanced up to the high walls, and was instantly smothered by an unfamiliar feeling, as if they might collapse onto him. The river shoved the log under the water. His head bashed against the trunk; he was giving up, his energy now depleted. Total weakness enveloped him. He was about to let go of the plum tree, and await his fate. He took one more breath, just as he was dropping into a souse-hole, then, he let go of the log, and as his head submerged, his right arm hovered for a split second; it was the final part of the farmer visible to the sun, the mountains and the world. It was over.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was almost as if something was reading his mind, saving him from himself, and the fear of the forest, of the unknown. But, this new unknown….was it real? Was it his own voice echoing back to him, trying to stop his mind from racing…was it a kind of survival tactic employed by the arousal of his over-indulgent human psyche? A thought sparked deeply within his subconscious, and, for just a millisecond, he felt that he may have lost his mind. But, mistrustful human instinct played itself out, and he was certain it came from outside of his inner self. The forest knows that human belief is so frail, and so limited.
The wind rushed overhead, clattering the bamboo trees together, and flowed just over the top of Farmer Forestfield’s hair. He seemed to jolt awake from a dreamy haze that lasted for either a few seconds or for an hour. He knew this voice was not his. His body tightened and all of his muscles tensed. Pain shot through his hip. He winced, but kept focused. His eyes blazed. He spun around, then back to the front, then to both sides, his head whipping around his body. A shot of adrenaline sprayed through his system.
At first, the man thought that a shadow had appeared at the opening at the bottom of the huge boulder. But, then he could see that it was not a shadow. It was an unusually small figure. And, that voice again. A deep basso profundo, tinged with a sort of whistle underlying it, a high-pitched ringing, subtly surrounding a deep guttural bass. The two opposing sounds created a vibration, that penetrated the man, like a laser, first entering him at his navel, then spreading throughout his body, a subtle hum shuddering his skin, nerves, muscles, ligaments, rippling through him like an electromagnetic pulse. The velvety smooth guttural trill flowed into the forest once again:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once the early domination of nature ensued—during the overthinker Dreamtime, in the long past—a Vortex of diminishing return was put into action, and has only accelerated downward, to their inevitable extinction. And. Along the way, this Vortex would bring immeasurable suffering….to Breathers most of all. Time must not be a part of the Breather equation. Recognition of time and each moment are death for the Breather. Breathers must simply breathe, and not think. But, Breathers knew that they needed allies, bridges for them to cross, to convey their worries, so change may occur.
These bridges included overthinkers, like the monk. Those connecting them to the other side were special Breathers, like Soborus and Yoki. They were the type of Breather capable of assessing who was worth helping, and who was not. Through this selective plan, they could begin to save themselves—and perhaps, even the overthinkers. The spirits of the Breather world knew that the end of their time was simply part of the natural flow, but they also knew that an artificial, destructive end to Paonototh, caused by the overthinkers, would lead to the end, the void at the bottom of the Vortex. The cycle would never begin again, in any other universe or any other dimension. The void that is infinity will remain only that, with no life, no future for anything or anyone. This artificially-based destruction was the death of all purpose, and was not part of Breather belief.
The old monk understood, as much as he could about this, enough so that he could help, just as the Breather creed states. There was much that he can never understand and much that would never be open to him, but his entire life purpose had also been simply to breathe, and to live, and to come to the aid of those suffering. And, his violent life told him that the overthinkers were fatally flawed, and in order to turn back time, he must act like the mountain and those who occupy it—a natural unkowning, of no time and of no thought. This is salvation. And that, he was familiar with.
As he walked through the great, circular door, the monk wiped the sweat off of his brow and neck with his towel. He walked down the hallway, turned right towards the small, faded wooden colonnade, and then entered his dwelling.
In "Realspace" the VORTEX has begun. How your world ends.......is up to you.
(Part 1 only; f***ull release: December)***
He entered the rapids now. Whitewater roiled by speed and wind painted the river. The rapidity of the flow was relentless. He was woozy and disoriented from the physicality of the river, as he convulsed and shook in every direction. Waves were pushed forward, building and rolling upwards to the sky, then swamping him from behind, as he slammed into the folded remnants of those in front. He saw jagged rocks everywhere, stabbing the waves ahead and to the sides. The shadows loomed directly above him now, he was passing through the shoot—soon to be spit out into the short, wide opening, then raked over the rocks at the lip of the falls….and, finally poured over the precipice, flushed straight down, shattering his body on the boulders below. Eventually, his ragged remains would break up, and whatever didn’t sink into the river, or deposit along the bank for bugs, fox, and other small animals, would flow languidly into the bay, leading into the ocean, to be picked over by parasites, water insects, and other sea life.
As he breached the narrow shoot, the roar of the falls just ahead shocked him; it screeched in one ear and out the other. Despite his anxiety, he still glanced up to the high walls, and was instantly smothered by an unfamiliar feeling, as if they might collapse onto him. The river shoved the log under the water. His head bashed against the trunk; he was giving up, his energy now depleted. Total weakness enveloped him. He was about to let go of the plum tree, and await his fate. He took one more breath, just as he was dropping into a souse-hole, then, he let go of the log, and as his head submerged, his right arm hovered for a split second; it was the final part of the farmer visible to the sun, the mountains and the world. It was over.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was almost as if something was reading his mind, saving him from himself, and the fear of the forest, of the unknown. But, this new unknown….was it real? Was it his own voice echoing back to him, trying to stop his mind from racing…was it a kind of survival tactic employed by the arousal of his over-indulgent human psyche? A thought sparked deeply within his subconscious, and, for just a millisecond, he felt that he may have lost his mind. But, mistrustful human instinct played itself out, and he was certain it came from outside of his inner self. The forest knows that human belief is so frail, and so limited.
The wind rushed overhead, clattering the bamboo trees together, and flowed just over the top of Farmer Forestfield’s hair. He seemed to jolt awake from a dreamy haze that lasted for either a few seconds or for an hour. He knew this voice was not his. His body tightened and all of his muscles tensed. Pain shot through his hip. He winced, but kept focused. His eyes blazed. He spun around, then back to the front, then to both sides, his head whipping around his body. A shot of adrenaline sprayed through his system.
At first, the man thought that a shadow had appeared at the opening at the bottom of the huge boulder. But, then he could see that it was not a shadow. It was an unusually small figure. And, that voice again. A deep basso profundo, tinged with a sort of whistle underlying it, a high-pitched ringing, subtly surrounding a deep guttural bass. The two opposing sounds created a vibration, that penetrated the man, like a laser, first entering him at his navel, then spreading throughout his body, a subtle hum shuddering his skin, nerves, muscles, ligaments, rippling through him like an electromagnetic pulse. The velvety smooth guttural trill flowed into the forest once again:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once the early domination of nature ensued—during the overthinker Dreamtime, in the long past—a Vortex of diminishing return was put into action, and has only accelerated downward, to their inevitable extinction. And. Along the way, this Vortex would bring immeasurable suffering….to Breathers most of all. Time must not be a part of the Breather equation. Recognition of time and each moment are death for the Breather. Breathers must simply breathe, and not think. But, Breathers knew that they needed allies, bridges for them to cross, to convey their worries, so change may occur.
These bridges included overthinkers, like the monk. Those connecting them to the other side were special Breathers, like Soborus and Yoki. They were the type of Breather capable of assessing who was worth helping, and who was not. Through this selective plan, they could begin to save themselves—and perhaps, even the overthinkers. The spirits of the Breather world knew that the end of their time was simply part of the natural flow, but they also knew that an artificial, destructive end to Paonototh, caused by the overthinkers, would lead to the end, the void at the bottom of the Vortex. The cycle would never begin again, in any other universe or any other dimension. The void that is infinity will remain only that, with no life, no future for anything or anyone. This artificially-based destruction was the death of all purpose, and was not part of Breather belief.
The old monk understood, as much as he could about this, enough so that he could help, just as the Breather creed states. There was much that he can never understand and much that would never be open to him, but his entire life purpose had also been simply to breathe, and to live, and to come to the aid of those suffering. And, his violent life told him that the overthinkers were fatally flawed, and in order to turn back time, he must act like the mountain and those who occupy it—a natural unkowning, of no time and of no thought. This is salvation. And that, he was familiar with.
As he walked through the great, circular door, the monk wiped the sweat off of his brow and neck with his towel. He walked down the hallway, turned right towards the small, faded wooden colonnade, and then entered his dwelling.
