old stories: untitled

here's another weird unfinished one, just a prologue:


"untitled"

Prologue

A field of tall grass lies empty. Swift winds wisp over hilltops and into the valley. It gathers there often, twisting and merging just enough to energize the atmosphere. Every now and then it pauses, briefly, then continues to swirl. As for how long this prolongs, no answer, the question itself remains senseless. Life regards time without a sense, in a way that it does not need it to occur. Time is a tool of man. It has no need, and like everything from it, time regards life with the sense of man, in a way that it needs it to occur. Man is a tool of life. As for how long this prolongs, no answer, the question itself remains senseless. Every now and then it pauses, briefly, then continues to swirl. It gathers there often, twisting and merging just enough to energize the atmosphere. Swift winds wisp over hilltops and into the valley. A field of tall grass lies not so empty.

Past the hills that lead into the valley lies a concrete jungle, a tool of man. Swift winds take it there, and a field of tall grass once again lies empty. It gathers, twisting and merging just enough to energize the atmosphere, just enough to separate. A Being. Every now and then it pauses, briefly, unfamiliar with its new perspective. As for how long this prolongs, no answer, the question itself remains senseless. Life regards separation without a sense, in a way that it does not need it to occur. Separation is a tool of man. It has no need, and like everything from it, man regards separation with the sense of time, in a way that it needs it to occur. As for how long this prolongs, no answer, the question itself remains senseless. Every now and then it becomes aware of time, somewhat familiar with its new perspective. A tool. It remembers when it gathered, twisted and merged just enough to energize the atmosphere, when it separated. The swift winds brought it there. A field of tall grass seems too far for it to know if it still lies empty.