The Corpse of Chronos

I'm confronted with cavernous darkness and echoing air. An expanse both dense and hollow; warm just slightly past the point of comfort. My movement is much more limited than it should be given the vastness. I am floating rather than walking, and the speed of my action is limited as if the air is water.

I am in the belly of an unknown beast.

It's not a question of how I came to be trapped. I am looking for a way out. However, without vision, without a reference point, I am eternally centered. Each passing increment of time re-anchors me to the present moment, and I make no outward progression. If only I could move faster, explore more, surely then I would be able to find an exit. What I have yet to fully comprehend, however, is the truth about the passing time:

The beast died long ago.

What is beyond this insulated casket? When the rotting leaves me a skeleton in a cage of bones, what then? My eyes, blinded from a lifetime of darkness will be unable to see the expanse of the desert that claimed the beast. I will be too old and weak to venture forward, weighed down even by my dessicated skin. Perhaps I will muse to myself some final words, wry and eerily cheerful.

"Don't worry about what you eat. Worry about what eats that which eats you."

Ocular Appreciation

A blink. Days have passed. Cherry blossoms fell in festival last week, perhaps the week before. A blink. Yellow light in the air draws my attention in diagonal, opposite angles of the setting sun. Opposite angels, the city of which I call home. My home calls me. Between blinks of realization and slivers of sound, consciousness reminds me that wholeness and completeness are only conglomerations of fragmentation. The spectrum is white light shattered. A blink and light is gone. Black is not a color, but the absence of. A blink because my eyes are dry, even in the darkness.