Süden

Er hat als Kind gerne Comichefte gelesen.
Seine Mutter jedoch war nie sehr glücklich damit. Er würde daraus nichts lernen, hatte sie immer gesagt. Jedoch hatte er eines Abends - im Sommer war es gewesen, er würde sich immer erinnern - gelernt, dass Norden immer oben sei. Diese Formulierung mag für manchen Geographielehrer den schlimmstmöglichen Alptraum darstellen. Jedoch war er kein Geographielehrer gewesen, sondern acht und ein aufgeweckter Bursche. Die Aussage und der Witz dahinter erschlossen sich ihm und begleiteten ihn viele Jahre lang. Immer, wenn er Weltkarten und Kompasse sah, musste er daran denken.
Norden ist immer oben.
Heute sitzt er häufig da, aber noch häufiger liegt er auf dem Rücken und starrt gen Norden. Wenn er tagsüber in Richtung Norden schaut, so sieht er das Mädchen, die Frau seiner Träume. Neben ihr stehen all die Dinge, die er früher einmal tun, erreichen und werden wollte, und lachen mit ihr. Gemeinsam schmieden sie sicherlich Pläne für das nächste Wochenende. Wo man hingeht, wen man einlädt, was man anzieht. Solche Sachen sicherlich. Manchmal bemerkt eine von ihnen seine verstohlenen Blicke. Dann tippt sie ihren Freundinnen an den Oberarm, ziemlich genau dorthin, wo man meist geimpft wird. Wo auch er meist geimpft wird. Manchmal flüstert sie ihnen auch einfach ins Ohr. Das Ende jedoch bleibt immer gleich.
Sie gehen. Er bleibt.
Wenn er den Norden nachts betrachtet, so sieht er meist Sterne und Wolkenfetzen. Manchmal Flugzeuge.
Den Norden selbst jedoch hat er noch nie gesehen.
Ist wahrscheinlich einfach zu dunkel.

Er hat als Kind gerne Comichefte gelesen.
Seine Mutter jedoch war nie sehr glücklich damit. Er würde nichts daraus lernen, hatte sie immer gesagt.
Nun, offenbar hat sie sich geirrt. Er kennt sich aus in der Welt. Man findet ihn immer im Süden.

Asaris II: The Mist King

There is no turning back from here. And there never will be one.

In the presence of the King, I can feel my bone marrow liquify, shatter and decay all at the same time. Desolate and dismal, he resides upon his rotten throne. In a darkness as sinister and soothing as a condition can be, my mind starts to flicker again, nightmarishly. Simultaneously, my body starts to breathe deep and slow, controlled and cognisant.

What an abhorrent antithesis.

Liquify... shatter.... decay...

Still, I stay put. Still, I breathe deeply and slowly, controlled and cognisant. And still, my mind dies inside in every fractional amount of a second. The decent reverberation of slowly falling water drops has left me, has given way to the drone of tranquility again. I can neither hear myself breathe nor sense any other endogenous noise. The silence is ghostly, ethereally... yet as dense as a somatic frame. I feel surrounded, encircled by the bodies of the silence. Any possible movement will lead to imperative confrontation.

And hence, I petrify.

Consonant... dissonant...

Consonant...

Dissonant...

As time goes by and leaves me, the disconcerting shape of human skulls, empty sockets underneath the fingers and palm of my hand starts to feel comforting, sedating. Gradually, I steep into the perpetual, everlasting embrace of death. Though I clearly feel now that I am not endangered, its distinctive, almost physical presence here is undeniable. Death must be a frequent visitant here, in this cavern.

Liquify... shatter... decay...

 Yet there is more... while time slithers further and further from my hands, I perceive more... beings.

Their presence discomfits me as I am insecure about their true nature. What I detect seems utterly unlikely, almost... impossible. Yet whilst I sense their presence longer and deeper, I grow increasingly sure about their identity.

Homunculi.

Unexpectedly, with a voice like molten, sooted lead, the King speaks to me.

 "Homunculi, puppet. The epitome of duality. No other creature depicts the synergy between Order and Chaos more appropriately. These creatures should never have been created, all the same they are here. Created by those who have surpassed the boundaries of human possibilities. Those who have questioned everything, questioned both the process and the singularity of creation, questioned both Order and Chaos. Those who have disrupted the balance and created a counterweight to their own defiance. Yes, puppet. Restless alchemists have ever since disrupted the balance of life and death, have ever since questioned the singularity of creation. It is no wondrous coincidence that you of all people have made your way up to this point. Restless alchemists have always found their way down to this cavern, to limbo, and just like them have you... 

Why yes... the investigators of duality have many times broken the rules layed down by the creators of the spheres. Created gold out of lead, purification out of putrefaction, life out of death... why yes, they always have... and they always will, as long as there is the science to do so.

Alchemy, duality, is the tephra of this world.

Coexistence, or nothing at all.

Unfortunately, restless scientists and questioners are more often than not tormented by their minds. As you have been, I suppose. You have been tortured by visions, by the descent of a god-like demon, by the gruesome Thaumaturgist... or am I wrong? Has your existence not been a gamble with fate since the day that you emerged? Have you not been struggling with creatures inside your soul, have you not been bleeding for the sake of innumerable internal, mental, emotional, spiritual wounds that have always been caused by similar feelings like doubt, hatred, abandonment and agony? And have you never emitted your mind to explore the borders of what you know, what you believe? Of course you have. I have sensed your mind wander around, beyond, above and in between the spheres our creators have shaped for us. I have watched your essence dance on the rim of sanity and utter madness, I have seen it prowling around the endless, gloomy fields of Nothingness. I have seen it leave the Tragedy, the sphere of existence to which you and I and everything that lives in one way or the other are nomologically bound to. I have seen it tremble before and get lost inside the Bone Tower, the sphere of self. This is where your soul has been lost and taken captive by the Thaumaturgist, puppet. This sickening usurper who has been spreading calamity for aeons has taken possession of your soul to turn you into his artifact, his implement. Has implanted visions of an abhorrent genocide, the violation, in your mind and besmirched your self with Laneor, the canker, the guardian of the Bone Tower.

Why are you crying, puppet?

The violation has never taken place. Though he who breeds genocide has tried to convince you of the fact that you are the weapon of a higher sphere, the hound of the apocalypse. You, puppet, have never harmed a being in this realm or sphere... the altered visions you have and have had are and have always been nothing more than just this - altered visions.

I am the guardian of this sphere - the limbo, including the Tragedy. Every tree, every creature, every cell is under my custody but slowly fades and dies in the grip of time. I maintain the conflicts in this sphere and in this sphere only, not in the Catacombs, which are the sphere of time, nor in the Bone Tower, nor in any other one. That is why I was unable to help your soul as it was stolen by the usurper. And it is why I intervened in your genocide vision. As the Thaumaturgist tried to turn you into a concrete weapon, the conflict planeshifted, alternated between the Bone Tower and the Tragedy. I was made to serve the sphere of existence. I have never been destined to serve any other realm nor am I willing or able to do so. I am bound to the Tragedy and cannot intervene in any other realm or sphere. Your conflict, Puppet, lies in the sphere of self. Ordo ab Chao, puppet. Reclaim your soul. Become."

The King has spoken.
Time collapses around me as I stare into the darkness. The King has spoken... and left. Albeit my eyes have been closed ever since the beginning of the monologue, I know that I am all alone again. Even the skull's empty sockets under the palm of my hand feel colder and more distant now, as if somehow they had left me. Not as if they had forsaken me... but as if they knew that I was not supposed to be here anymore.
The King has spoken.
With feet like menhir and legs like cured tar, I start to slowly, gradually move my body to the entrance of the cave. The body and I both know that a long and grand migration lies ahead.
The King has spoken.
I have to become.

Schlafende Kräne

Die Eleganz schlafender Kräne
Ist zu vergleichen mit jener schwirrender Bienen:
Geprägt von Fragilität.
Wenn
Schlafende Kräne in behaglicher Hitze
An Nachmittagen über Bauten wachen
Träumen diese in den tiefen Schatten
Ihrer Beschützer.
Erzählt man sich.

Die Unaufgeregtheit schlafender Kräne
Im Angesicht drohender Wolkenbrüche
Ähnelt in ihren Grundzügen
Elefanten in verschneiten Steppen:
Eine gewisse Überlegenheit
Ist ihnen stets gewiss.
Erzähle ich euch.

Die Erhabenheit schlafender Kräne
Sei zu vergleichen
            mit nichts in der Welt.
Lediglich riesige schlafende Kräne
Vermittelten Nähe, die ihr so sehr fehle.
Erzählte sie mir.

Schlafende Kräne im Abendrot
Bringen in die Dämmerung Licht.
Ich beobachte sie Nacht für Nacht
Und denke voller Sehnsucht an dich.