thoughts

The Minute Apocalypse

Sometimes it’s good to be alone. But the Rider doesn’t like loneliness, even if it seems that it is the other way around. The Rider looks at his grey homestead, the clock frozen in time, the faded flowers in front of the house, and he wonders. He very carefully pours the grains of his sand through his fingers. And he sees the void, even if the sand is still there, still and motionless as stone.

Emptiness is never good. He sees the void where the heart should be and tries to replace it with a substitute. A substitute for feelings, a substitute for imagination. Sometimes he succeeds, and then the Rider feels a bit of joy. He can enjoy, oh yes. Sometimes he thinks that it is a true human joy. Then, however, it comes to the sad conclusion that it is completely the opposite.

When he rides his horse, white as snow, the stars dance for him in the sky. They dance and dance until they are tired, they will not sleep in their heavenly beds, until the Rider reaches his next man and does not let his sand fall to the end. But all the time he thinks about his sand, which does not pour over a millimetre. It makes him sad. It pleases him. He does not know how to pick up this strange feeling in his skull that makes him regret some people and regret himself.

His work is not popular among mankind. Everyone would never meet him, but most of them feel relieved when he stands next to them and doesn’t explain absolutely anything. They can go where their lives have always led them, and the Rider is the gate to what people call the afterlife. It is also frightening, especially when you believe in burning pots. But finally they see and hear clearly, and for these few moments of absolute weightlessness, it is worth sacrificing the temporal shell. Which about they don’t care anymore.

Cats. Cats are good. Sometimes, he catches myself imitating love for them. In the rhythm of the non-ticking clock, cats, living cats, murmur him a lullaby to non-sleep. These cats, so soft, so unbearable, so…perfect in their conceited way of being…sometimes the Rider has the impression that they give him a piece of the life they emanate. And he sees more and more distinct grains of his sand.

Sometimes, different individuals are passing through his domain. He wants well for them. He knows what they did in their lives, do now and will do in the future. But this knowledge seems empty to him, the same emptiness that surrounds him from all sides. He doesn’t want emptiness, only life. He wants life. He wants it so much.

He scratches the cat behind his ears, the cat purrs. A horse snorts in a black-and-white stable, white snowball in a colourless field of still life. The Rider sighs.

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