Listen.
Just a moment.
Just to be sure no one has heard you.
Not that anything here could.
But listen nonetheless.
Breathe slowly in.
Out.
All the while,
Hear the air escape your lungs.
A soft,
Subtle sound.
Silent anywhere.
Anywhere but here.
Take another breath.
Then reach out to the ancient,
Weathered handle.
Feel how smooth the polished stone is.
The curve,
Fitting against the rounded void of your cupped hand.
Snug in its grip,
It is not slick,
But worn.
Centuries of travelers doing the same as you are now.
Pull,
Gentle,
Though firm in action,
And feel that old,
Slightly musty air creeping over you.
Notice how it isn't in a rush,
But still the smell of archaic vellum and dry leather forces its way out into the night.
For a moment,
Simply stand,
Door ajar,
And gaze into the dim recesses of this place.
First,
See that far distant desk,
Just visible,
Up a staircase with huge tomes piled on it.
Notice that there is a light that flickers,
Though its flame is an unnatural violet.
A wise choice to keep from burning the books.
And there is a shape,
Up next to the immense wooden piece of furniture.
A hunched form that seems to ripple in and out of existence.
Don't worry about that one.
It is too absorbed in its work to notice you.
Next,
Draw your gaze down and see the massive rose,
Easily three of you high,
Carved from the most elegant of white marble.
Notice how perfect they fit their contents,
How well they hold the weight of the world,
Past and future.
You can't see how far the immense space goes to the right and left,
But it must be infinite.
Amongst the rose,
Notice the hooded figures,
Writhing and fretting,
Searching.
Bigger than you,
And far more intimidating,
See how they convulse and twist,
Distraught in their inescapable agony of emptiness.
There is something they seek,
A tiny tidbit of knowledge that will free them from this pain.
In that way,
They are like you.
Yet you also know,
Your search extends beyond these walls.
Knowledge alone will not suffice.
This is something you know well,
But the petitioners within these walls have yet to learn.
Maybe they never will.
As you take that first step in,
Smell that age in the place,
An oppressive weight millennia contained within the works here.
Let that sit,
Settling on your shoulders,
If for only a moment,
Before moving on.
A second step leaves that burden behind you.
Striding into the rose,
See how each is lined with leather-bound books.
Then,
There,
Perhaps metal rots in the shape of pages.
An archaic style of scroll seems to occupy one shelf,
And there,
A set of boxes,
Though how they are meant to be read is unclear.
All records and stories,
Lives and deaths,
Ends and the beginnings which inevitably stem from them.
None are what you need.
Turn that second aisle as it crosses your path,
And see the way blocked by a lumbering,
Withered form.
This one has been here quite some time.
Notice the writhing tendrils,
Moving below its heavy,
Tattered cloak.
Threads of knowing have so infused its body,
You can see how mindless acquisition has broken this thing.
And yet,
It still searches.
Gibbering and muttering,
It shifts a page of the great tome in its hands,
Desperately clinging to the search.
Watch,
As its thin multitude of fingers frantically turns pages,
Crying softly to itself.
Feel that sorrow,
The confusion.
Yet this one must learn through its own means.
You cannot show it the way out of its pain.
Take another slow,
Deep breath,
And feel how close your goal is here.
There,
Just the next few rows over,
Consider that anticipation,
As you wait patiently,
Letting this being work through its own dilemma.
As it yowls and shudders,
Throwing the book to the ground and sobbing.
Calmly step to the side,
Allowing it to continue its frantic scrabble amongst the shelves.
Notice,
As it moves,
How little of its form is left.
Thoughts and ideas without cohesion.
Now though,
Your way is clear.
Breathe in to settle yourself,
Then step forward,
Down to the row where you know a history was left.
Turning,
See how there is another petitioner here,
Seeking.
It has come only recently,
And perhaps will move on to other locales before it becomes trapped in the insidious promises here.
Yet,
As you approach,
Listen to its whispered cries,
Hear the softly spoken denials.
Each page it reads seems to confirm a great fear,
And yet it denies it.
Tossing the book aside,
And moving on to the next.
Sigh softly,
And be careful to avoid its frantic touch.
That desperation not something you wish to be drawn into.
Denying the knowledge gained,
Seeking confirmation of deeply held falsehoods.
That was the surest way to become trapped here.
Best to let it keep searching,
Though it might never escape.
On the opposite side,
An item catches your eye.
Close your eyes,
And remember this journal sitting on a bedside table,
The sheets crumpled in an oddly perfect way.
Feel how comfortable that memory is,
And know it is long gone.
But the journal remains.
Slim,
Grey,
A soft cloth covering,
Seeming almost out of place in such a collection.
Reach out and touch it.
Feel the rough texture just catching against the creases in your skin.
Pulling it from its little nook,
Take note,
A page is bent,
A corner just barely turned in.
Of course it would be dog-eared,
A habit you never could stand.
Flip to that page,
And smile,
Remembering all the subtle cues in that gesture.
Close your eyes,
And breathe in,
Letting the sounds of weeping and reading fade away.
Relax a moment,
Holding the anticipation,
Then breathe out,
And look down.
There,
On the page,
See the little notes,
The drawings,
All so familiar,
Yet so novel.
A place you have certainly never been,
With thoughts and commentary that you would have never picked up on,
Yet so comfortable.
There is no revelation,
No understanding of the why of all of this,
But you are at peace with that.
Breathe in,
And as you let out the air,
Replace the journal in its little nook.
Unlike those trapped here,
You know knowledge alone is insufficient,
And so you must move on.
This has been Residual Futures,
A Blue Path meditation of the fatal neutrinos,
Stories of histories that weren't,
Futures that mustn't,
And places that cannot be.
Thank you for listening.
I hope your day is a little calmer and more surreal for it.
This is Easton,
And remember,
I'm as much a work of fiction as anything you he-
