The heat, the light. The roaring noise. Black cloud writhing its way upwards from the ground. A little yelling, a lot of running, and the faithful comfort of sirens. Shadrach noticed none of this, and all of it.
The man sat cross-legged on a bitumen road now littered with glass and fragments, hands in lap, gazing. His eyes were unfocused. He didn't need them right now. But he was still watching, still observing the air before his face. He couldn't see it, but he was aware of it, just as he'd always been aware of his own body, aware of its substance, its shudder of vibration as sound pulsed through it from all around, aware of the light that penetrated it every which way in more colours than an eye could ever see. It danced between itself, atom bouncing on atom and simmering with heat. Fluid. Chaotic. Gorgeous, thought the man. Shapeless.
He was still aware of his body, too, and it also was fluid. Beautifully shaped clay- Not much more. Still soft enough to submit to a sculptor's touch. Still moving with his thoughts like it always did. Shadrach felt supple, today. In all his other memories he'd been so stiff and rigid. Everything else felt supple and limber, too. The air in his lungs, the air on his skin, the clothes on his arms and the black-grey road under him. He focused his eyes on the ground before him and stretched his arm, child-like, towards the dust of this world. He picked up a piece of the concrete curb before him as if it was sand, and like sand, it slipped from his hand and through his fingers in grains. He lifted it back up into his palm again, tensing the solid matter like a muscle of his own body. It contracted like flesh, and when he dropped it, it splashed onto the ground in drops. Shapeless. Malleable. Just another part of himself, subject to his imagination, like everything else.
Stretching his arm brought it to Shadrach's attention that the collection of molecules he liked to think of as his body was, in fact, experiencing considerable discomfort. An instant of panic ricocheted through him, and he stood up rapidly, already taking inventory of the parts of himself and how much exposure they'd received. He was hot, sweating profusely, and his ears were quaking under the reach of the noise. In moments, the air around his head stilled its rushing sound, and the ugly darkness of sweat in his clothes flicked itself into a cold mist resting on a cool body. His heart was beating a little too quickly, so he gentled it; There were some particles of smoke in his lungs that he didn't like, so he unmade them, dissolving them from this world like a breath of wind. ...Where did they go? thought the man, though he knew they were simply destroyed. He would investigate later. Shadrach was not the type to leave empty spaces unexplored.
There was one empty space that Shadrach had ignored, though, and that was a gap in his memory. He'd been... Done with work, for a day. The sun was setting. It was down now, though there was still some light from the sky. He'd taken the wrong bus, a southbound bus, one that ran almost into the inner city. He knew he often slept on the back seat, but couldn't remember doing so. And then he was here, and the world was like this, soft and loose around him.
For the first time since waking up, Shadrach put his bodily eyes to necessary use, using them to receive light from the places that were just a bit too far out of his reach to sense. Took in the blackened mass of wreckage, still burning, though a team of firefighters were close, and beginning to unload. Cooled his body temperature again, and reached down to gather a handful of glass shards from the ground until he found what he suspected- A single fragment, stained by a trace of human tissue. Skin and blood. Not his DNA, but he didn't know whose, either.
"I'm gone, then." The man sighed. Not with regret, nor with relief. An acknowledgement of an ending.
Ivo Shadrach thought that, on another day, in a rigid body, he might have tried to calm himself with a cigarette. But right now... He'd never cared to smoke so little in his life. He didn't feel gone at all, and perhaps that was why the idea of his death suddenly meant so little to him. He was here, really here, for the first time. And he felt comfortable. He felt like himself. The world around him was paint, and his body within it was clay, and he could see it all as perfectly arranged as a gallery, piece for piece.
He tossed the glass shards into the air, and they dipped and swerved smoothly in the air, splintering into fine flakes that spun and orbited his bubble of quiet in a glittering silica halo.
The man sat cross-legged on a bitumen road now littered with glass and fragments, hands in lap, gazing. His eyes were unfocused. He didn't need them right now. But he was still watching, still observing the air before his face. He couldn't see it, but he was aware of it, just as he'd always been aware of his own body, aware of its substance, its shudder of vibration as sound pulsed through it from all around, aware of the light that penetrated it every which way in more colours than an eye could ever see. It danced between itself, atom bouncing on atom and simmering with heat. Fluid. Chaotic. Gorgeous, thought the man. Shapeless.
He was still aware of his body, too, and it also was fluid. Beautifully shaped clay- Not much more. Still soft enough to submit to a sculptor's touch. Still moving with his thoughts like it always did. Shadrach felt supple, today. In all his other memories he'd been so stiff and rigid. Everything else felt supple and limber, too. The air in his lungs, the air on his skin, the clothes on his arms and the black-grey road under him. He focused his eyes on the ground before him and stretched his arm, child-like, towards the dust of this world. He picked up a piece of the concrete curb before him as if it was sand, and like sand, it slipped from his hand and through his fingers in grains. He lifted it back up into his palm again, tensing the solid matter like a muscle of his own body. It contracted like flesh, and when he dropped it, it splashed onto the ground in drops. Shapeless. Malleable. Just another part of himself, subject to his imagination, like everything else.
Stretching his arm brought it to Shadrach's attention that the collection of molecules he liked to think of as his body was, in fact, experiencing considerable discomfort. An instant of panic ricocheted through him, and he stood up rapidly, already taking inventory of the parts of himself and how much exposure they'd received. He was hot, sweating profusely, and his ears were quaking under the reach of the noise. In moments, the air around his head stilled its rushing sound, and the ugly darkness of sweat in his clothes flicked itself into a cold mist resting on a cool body. His heart was beating a little too quickly, so he gentled it; There were some particles of smoke in his lungs that he didn't like, so he unmade them, dissolving them from this world like a breath of wind. ...Where did they go? thought the man, though he knew they were simply destroyed. He would investigate later. Shadrach was not the type to leave empty spaces unexplored.
There was one empty space that Shadrach had ignored, though, and that was a gap in his memory. He'd been... Done with work, for a day. The sun was setting. It was down now, though there was still some light from the sky. He'd taken the wrong bus, a southbound bus, one that ran almost into the inner city. He knew he often slept on the back seat, but couldn't remember doing so. And then he was here, and the world was like this, soft and loose around him.
For the first time since waking up, Shadrach put his bodily eyes to necessary use, using them to receive light from the places that were just a bit too far out of his reach to sense. Took in the blackened mass of wreckage, still burning, though a team of firefighters were close, and beginning to unload. Cooled his body temperature again, and reached down to gather a handful of glass shards from the ground until he found what he suspected- A single fragment, stained by a trace of human tissue. Skin and blood. Not his DNA, but he didn't know whose, either.
"I'm gone, then." The man sighed. Not with regret, nor with relief. An acknowledgement of an ending.
Ivo Shadrach thought that, on another day, in a rigid body, he might have tried to calm himself with a cigarette. But right now... He'd never cared to smoke so little in his life. He didn't feel gone at all, and perhaps that was why the idea of his death suddenly meant so little to him. He was here, really here, for the first time. And he felt comfortable. He felt like himself. The world around him was paint, and his body within it was clay, and he could see it all as perfectly arranged as a gallery, piece for piece.
He tossed the glass shards into the air, and they dipped and swerved smoothly in the air, splintering into fine flakes that spun and orbited his bubble of quiet in a glittering silica halo.
