wb :

As the brook swelled with icemelt in the springtime, as the trees bloomed with their first flowers, so did his heart burst with the joy he felt.

With newfound energy, his weary heart soared above the grey world below into the blue-gold glory of the open sky. He felt not even the wings that held him aloft, seeing only the vast expanse of freedom stretched out before him. That burden- weariness- fell from his shoulders and tumbled towards the earth.

Earth! It held no meaning now for a soul thus freed! The chains of gravity, the shackles of existence, all snapped in that instant of liberation. Liberation! The feeling flowed through his blood, thick as honey, smooth as quicksilver, chilling him with its fiery embrace. Oh, how could the heart long for anything other than sweet, sweet liberation!

He soared above the world, free from the petty concerns of the rabble.

He flew, flew, for what seemed like eternity-

-TWO HOURS, read the display.

He blinked.

-TWO HOURS, it read. No mistake about it.

He blinked again.

His aches and cares met him as Death does life- slowly, inexorably, suddenly. They crept up on him, snuck their roots and tendrils into the edges of his consciousness, took hold of his mind and chained it to the earth. They broke into his thoughts as a flood, carrying away all the visions and leaving in their place a brood of monsters, clawing at his mind, eager to trap and roast the struggling bird.

He blinked for the third time.

"That'll be two hundred creds, sir."

He turned towards the voice, saw someone standing at the edge to something. A cell. He took off the helmet.
Realization had taken its own time today.

He paid the brainjack's owner, and went on his way.

He would have to stop soon. He was getting hooked, and the world never waited for the dreamers, the simulation-addicts. That indescribable pleasure, that momentary release, would have to come from elsewhere.

Perhaps he would just give it up. Stop smelling the roses, for the thorns pricked him. Stop loving- if he never loved, he never would have cried.

Pleasure had been the ruin of too many a good man. He wasn't going to let himself succumb. He would be the last man, if the whole world went mad.

Labels: prose