Hades™

Nicholas Lawrence

Tokyo™ levelled; neoTokyo™ too. Rumours of an Efficient Cause™: warlike, telekinetic. Beneath centuries of sedimented Sorrow™, only Hades™ remains. It is 215 PD – approximately 2225 in systems of old (assuming there remained records to be consulted). In a flaccid attempt to escape ancestral Anguish™ you defy the Word™ laid down by nomothetic powers and bathe in the tepid waters of the Lethe™. A genealogy of Loss™ concealed by nebulous Dreams™; you make violent Progress™ – beyond the bounds of Cognition™ – the unseen forces of surrounding opiate cavities propelling you – perpetually – towards the analgesic embrace of Hypnos™ (the One True God™). Caught in a squalid undertow, you are coerced to baptismal depths (or heights, depending on the angle of inference). Here – a debut of Affect™ – you are welcomed into the Fold™; the Children of Pain and Loss™ accept you as their own. This vision of fraternal Love™ defies visibility, shackling itself to supersensible substrates (prefixal collision suggesting powers most high); a gravity of Feeling™ expertly circumscribing a rationality of Thought™. You find yourself Nowhere™. This not there is exactly where you want to be; this not there is your True Home™. (No wonder your actions are subject to unflinching Legislation™.) Swept away by indomitable currents, you surrender to long-desiderated Emotions™. To what can only presumably be your Dismay™ a benign Externality™ (the precise elucidation of which would be – considered from a strictly biographical point of view – altogether superfluous) lures you back to a Reality™ more painful.

You return to your solipsistic Existence™; to your abode (a nominal generosity considering the Space™ described) and its four walls long since satiated by the repugnant stench of a Loneliness™ beyond compare. You had Parents™ once, Siblings™ too, or at least that is what you were led to believe as you were regaled by tales of severed limbs and stories of Fire and Brimstone™. Halting an otherwise expedient exit – bestriding the threshold (to both home and life) – your begrudging Ward™ muttered of literary tropes and eras Victorian. Despite the considerable psychical impression they left on you their words were, and still are, beyond your Understanding™. Returning to the Present™ (or better still, the Future™) you look down at the sullied surfaces – planar and otherwise – which presently compose your refuge. Can this be all the Cybernated Deities™ have planned for you? you ask yourself, suggestively. An epigenetic pang of Shame™ – Genesis™ unknown – fulminates against your Delusions of Grandeur™. You are struck down by spasms of Loss and Suffering™ not necessarily your own. The floor, traditionally a relatively stationary concept, makes rapid strides towards you, somehow managing to assume a – less than uniform – circular Motion™ as it does so.

[FADE TO BLACK™.]

You awake what must be Hours™ later (a more accurate estimation requiring some method of temporal determination). You pick yourself up, transport yourself a few Centimetres™ to the Left™, finally lowering yourself – once again – into a horizontal position: this time atop a surface ever so slightly more forgiving (vertebraically speaking of course). Consciously or otherwise, you decide it best to get some Rest™ for your coming Days™ entombed within the gruelling heat of the Mines of Redemption™.