(…sequel of Prelude to Madness…)
…The thin beam of light illuminates a creature, a shadow of a man that once was alive, but now barely lives in the memories of his forgotten and lost soul. A creature of light that once was a proud and honorable member of the society that now no longer exists, a society of human souls that was lost in a bloody alterations of creation and destruction, that lasted till its very end.
This forgotten creature of solitude sits in front of the old dark table, small and irrelevant like himself, hunchbacked from the years resting in this dungeon of horror. Hunchbacked and miserable, holding in his dry and cracked fingers an old writing feather, dirty from dried ink and worn from its use, writing a long letter that brings him back in some maybe better and happier times.
What is he writing?
A history of his damned soul, a miserable life that he once had, or maybe a history of the society in which he was once the most reputable member. Nobody knows. Nobody will ever know. Not now when his world has come to its end.
While occupied in his thoughts of the next few lines he must write, not for someone else to read, but for his own pleasure, his bright blue sea colored eyes shine on the light of a small and worn candle, thinking of the life he once had.
He knows that all that has come to an end, and that writing is the only thing he can do now, but he is convinced that he has a duty, as the chronicler of human society and the last inhabitant of this now vanished and forgotten world, to write its history, a history of its happier times.
Of course, he writes lies of the world that never existed, only in his own mind. But who can blame him now, or judge him for the life he spent in years of sin? There is nobody to witness his lies which he writes in his small book, the book of deception and evil of human race that once inhabited a world that is now destroyed.
(Image & Source: Saint John the Apostle @ jesus-passion.com)