Going down the path. Our memories have been scattered along the rails, as if waiting for the fake trains, carts. All of them golden, as they were on their dreams, now corrupted by the immensity of their own being.
The Player blinks. Once, twice. Has it ever really existed? And if it did…what is the meaning of it all?
This mess was caused by those children, most certainly, carrying the blocks around and scaring the chickens away with their pained screams.
"Please, save me…it hurts so much…please! Please!"
We found out that they don't matter at all for our beautiful purpose. Sadly, the Player was late, so it was only possible to let go of them yesterday.
They didn't matter to it, quite in fact. They were the toys they were supposed to be and one by one, they were given and sold, feeding these angry wolves and humans.
It is all okay now.
They don't scream today, long gone.
It is time to go back to work, trimming this annoying, warm grass before it gets too purple to be used in the gold. Only light pink grass is supposed to be used and their potion would agonize and cry the whole week if something went wrong.
Is this an illusion?
Real life tastes like pieces of flesh and hot cocoa in a stormy day, when the sand hits the wet window and becomes mud in the cruel hands of water.
These kids are sand.
Isn't mud useful, thought? To make our castle stronger and stronger, waiting until the rain leaves us alone. We all have to start with something, even if it is just a dirt house in the middle of the night.
It is illuminated by the eerie red lights of little torches carried by mobs. Their coal is their tongues, torn apart and set on fire, burning low in the tip of the stick. They aren't crying, thought. They know their purpose the best. One by one, kneeling down before destiny, waiting for their very own train…
Their kids melt in the ground, little puddles of bloody entrails, giggling a bit before being gone, watching as their parents sob without words, wanting to honor their little lives, but unable to. We must serve our killer, for this is the only way through the lack of life.
Be silent, please.
And they dissolve into dust and mist, leaving their burning red torches behind, licking the ground even while gone.
The path is here, set, ready.
The Player just waits, gathering a few dreams that the wind blows near him.
Static, static. Words stuck in the throat, wanting to be spit out, thrown up…whatever! They want to become more chickens and be eaten once again, like a mortal virus, a glitch made out of feelings.
Some dogs die while the small feathered creatures tear them apart from inside. Cats grief around them, becoming balloons and floating up, to reach the stars. Is that even possible? Of course not. Cats are fools, but no bigger fools than their darling dogs.
The feathers that the chickens drop upon their sweet mass suicide (What is life when you become a bug to yourself?) tickle if you step on them.
They beg to be swallowed.
The Player grabs four and sticks them on his dirty mouth, choking, gagging on them. Fifteen minutes and there, there is nothing else.
No more than these four will meet the same destiny, thought.
The despair of the world will become a path and bridge. Pure obsidian for impure feet and hearts. Serves them right, to be kings and queens.
The dead mobs salute their dictator, all of them madly in love, drowning over and over, flailing in pure agony, and almost crying without wanting to.
The price of being happy.
Oh, finally. The train has arrived at the station of lies.
The Player claps his hands and steps in, without caring.
What was the meaning of our fantastical and painful journey through the garbage of the world? None. We created ourselves for fun and these damned children laughed at their own destiny. It was pleasing for them to be destroyed by their hands, in the end.
A distortion, a deviation of the rule. Such a painful exception!
The Player blinks. Once, twice. Déjà vu? No, it's reality happening, a gift for you and just for you. Don't let it be told once again, please!
No matter where it goes or why it goes, we will see and hear the same, once again, forever, to the end of these days. Cloudy days…cloudy days…these feathers won't help a lot, either.
Dreams create the way. It is just another fateful meeting, you see. Our Player plays with the pink grass, until it is all just yellow again and the moaning field of nowhere becomes the infinite of wheat everywhere.
"Ssshhh…she will wake up, so be careful"
These cows are overprotective, as understood.
Tomorrow is a new day, a new stop. Today, without meaning anyway, is the moment of gouging those eyes, those liars, out. The Player understands this need.
The golden rail goes on, for as long as their screams are unheard.