In the middle of a fild, a pit of quicksand swallows the earth around it, Within it are the colours of sadness and death:a dark maroon, crimson the shade of dried blood, a deep onyx, a purple reminiscent of the worst of poisons.
A figure sits upon nothingness over the treachery. Its hand is outreached, calling. Its face is somber, loving even. It cares more than one can know. It speaks of freedom.
Tempted by the embodiment of your desire you step once, twice, a third time, until you nearly fall, realizing that you have reached the entrance to the pit. You look up at the figure. "Save me," you try to call to it "I can never reach you like this!" But no words come out. The figure looks at you, saddenned, but not understanding.
You were not meant to float as it can.
You attempt to go back over the edge. Yet the will of the figure calls to you, wondering why your path has changed. Tears fall from its eyes. You are torn, unsure of which move is best to make.
You were wrong to have ever thought happiness comes from this direction. Above you, rain falls and the skies close themselves. There is no longer a heaven. More of the ground falls. There is no escape.
Then the next thing to go is the earth around your fingers, you cry in pain as the burn seperates. The figure is still blind.
Can it not see this terror?
Can it not feel the fire that consumes?
And you fall endlessly, the voice above you mourning no loss but its own. And even afterall that you had attemtped.
You are so, so very alone.