/lit/ - Literature

>yfw you realize that this is all just the opposite of nothingness
>yfw you realize that it only seems arbitrary because you are completely submerged in it
>yfw you realize that it couldn't possibly be any other way than it is right at this exact moment
>yfw you realize that the passage of time in an illusion
>yfw you realize that existence is you, right now, sitting where you're at, reading this post on 4channel.org
>yfw you realize you'll never be the same again

Thomas comes to, tucked to the chin in a half-sized bed placed at the center of a small, dimly lit room. Over his chest and between his upturned feet, a long corridor stretches yonward before him, breaking the maritimed darkwood walls of the chamber. Fully dressed all at once, beard clean and flowing grey by his chest, he leaves the bed and makes his way down the gaping hallway, right shoulder leading him in caution. All dark turns the hall as he proceeds, until it ends with a mahogany door framed by a sepian light that sounds from its edges. It swings by its hinge and Thomas brings his hands to his aching eyes as he emerges into a great goldenbright grassfield. Wincing, he waits to bear the light, and as he does, a heaving melodic hum comes to him from all around. He sees: a great choral ring at least two hundred men strong closes off his place in the field. Men, women, and children alike, they stand wallstraight and proud in lovely white dress burned gold by the warm light of the day. A great array of diverse instruments wait in their palms and at their feet, taught and brassparts gleaming: harps, trombones, hurgy-gurdies, celestes, banjos, harmonicas, cellos, flutes. Smiling at Thomas, they continue their melodic seethe in careful harmony. He proceeds forward, eyes finally adjusted, and there standing in front of him, they are. His father, looking no further than thirty years, in a pinstriped suit like a barbershop quartet, and his mother, all dressed up in an exquisite display of feathers and color, just like the Rio girls in Carnival used to be, fruited headdress towering high and brown skin glistening in the day, stand side by side before him. They are just as handsome and proud as they once were. Thomas begins to totter towards them, mouth parted, and breaks into a desperate run, hands wildly reaching out. The choir's tune builds and stirs, and closer he stumbles, eyes welling up, mumbling and whimpering, and here now he's thirty feet, now twenty, now ten, and the singers all mount their instruments and he's right there and the song explodes in a great bursting chorale of holy unity and play, strings shimmering and reeds revving and cymbals crashing and voices belting and he falls in agony at his parents' feet, unable to meet their eyes, sobbing and snotting and shaking, screaming at the ground and screaming for forgiveness.

Thomas comes to, tucked to the chin in a half-sized bed placed at the center of a small, dimly lit room. Over his chest and between his upturned feet, a long corridor stretches yonward before him, breaking the maritimed darkwood walls of the chamber. Fully dressed all at once, beard clean and flowing grey by his chest, he leaves the bed and makes his way down the gaping hallway, right shoulder leading him in caution. All dark turns the hall as he proceeds, until it ends with a mahogany door framed by a sepian light that sounds from its edges. It swings by its hinge and Thomas brings his hands to his aching eyes as he emerges into a great goldenbright grassfield. Wincing, he waits to bear the light, and as he does, a heaving melodic hum comes to him from all around. He sees: a great choral ring at least two hundred men strong closes off his place in the field. Men, women, and children alike, they stand wallstraight and proud in lovely white dress burned gold by the warm light of the day. A great array of diverse instruments wait in their palms and at their feet, taught and brassparts gleaming: harps, trombones, hurgy-gurdies, celestes, banjos, harmonicas, cellos, flutes. Smiling at Thomas, they continue their melodic seethe in careful harmony. He proceeds forward, eyes finally adjusted, and there standing in front of him, they are. His father, looking no further than thirty years, in a pinstriped suit like a barbershop quartet, and his mother, all dressed up in an exquisite display of feathers and color, just like the Rio girls in Carnival used to be, fruited headdress towering high and brown skin glistening in the day, stand side by side before him. They are just as handsome and proud as they once were. Thomas begins to totter towards them, mouth parted, and breaks into a desperate run, hands wildly reaching out. The choir's tune builds and stirs, and closer he stumbles, eyes welling up, mumbling and whimpering, and here now he's thirty feet, now twenty, now ten, and the singers all mount their instruments and he's right there and the song explodes in a great bursting chorale of holy unity and play, strings shimmering and reeds revving and cymbals crashing and voices belting, and he falls in agony at his parents' feet, unable to meet their eyes, sobbing and snotting and shaking, screaming at the ground and screaming for forgiveness.