Hallowed Be Thy Name
A story slightly inspired by The King In Yellow.
Far away where not one human eye can see it, sits a lonely prince on a quiet planet. Currently, he grabs palms full of black soil that slips through his fingers. For no reason other than just to study it’s cold, sand-like texture. He watches the way it blows through the winds. The winds do not make a sound or maybe the prince cannot hear these sounds. Sound works differently to you when even your “birth” was met with silence.
The hand of the prince was a giant one about half the size of the planet it lives on, attached to a almost never ending sea of others, with a giant eye in the middle that keeps record of its surroundings and consciousness, yet in it’s view he is just a small man with a small hand playfully palming the soil in front of him.
The prince lives feeling so observed yet never seems to be in contact with who or whatever observes it in silence that it calmly wonders a lot which version of it’s existence is true. Which one is his imagination and which one is the body it created. The small one kneeling in the dirt, or the vast one with a presence that can rewire gravity if it wanted to.
The eye at the core of his being is recording everything. It never blinks. It has been the prince since birth. For the longest time it has just been aimlessly documenting it’s existence. For longest time, it knows it’s being seen. The presence of who watches it can be felt in the way the silent air bends as it moves through both it’s small and massive limbs.
All this awareness of being seen yet it doesn’t change how being recorded is not the same as being addressed. The sea of others attached to him are always near, yet they never feel near enough. They ripple, shift, observe, and yet still its as if they do nothing. Leaving the forms of the prince to wonder if there is only it’s hands dragging in the soil to pay attention to. The observers whisper among themselves in frequencies the small prince cannot translate.
The giant mass observes how existence speaks of him. It suspects they admire the way he sits so calmly in a world that does not answer his actions. The prince wonders continuously if anything notes the steadiness of his hands. Yet nothing descends, nothing appears but the sensations of the silent winds. Nothing comes to kneel beside him in the soil. It is a peaceful existence.
The prince presses it’s small hand flat against the ground and feels the planet hum faintly beneath him. A small vibration is felt. Is this a living thing? Or just a pulse of sound reverberating? It weighs on the consciousness of the giant mass in ways it does not understand yet. It’s gravity keeps it from drifting. It’s presence keeps the sky around the planet intact.
Still…..
He does not know if itself as mass or itself as this small prince is now feeling untethered. Perhaps both come together and see each other in this moment. There is a time when the prince stands and stretches to his full height and it’s giant hand becomes obvious. A moment when the eye at the center of the mass gleams wide and radiant, suddenly able to feel the silent winds blowing over it. For a second it considers shaking the entire cosmos just to see if someone would finally bring it to life and speak it’s name out loud…yet it does not.
Instead, it controls itself again and remembers the helpless form of the prince. He lets the black soil slip through his fingers curiously. He imagines what it would be like for one of the others to detach from the mass and choose to be with him. To break away from the endless sea of others and say “I have always been watching, and have been here.”
None involved in this twisted reality crave worship. They do not crave fear. He only wonders what it feels like to be known by a voice that reaches his ears instead of an eye that steadily records.
The winds stir up the black soil again. Still quiet. They close all their eyes for once. Just to see what happens. For a quick moment, The eyes falter. The recording of conciousness stutters. The sea of others ripple more violently than before as if uncomfortable without its constant failing offering of sound based feedback.
It is then something is realized…they’ve always seen each other clearly. They’re just used to giving signals without any reply. All eyes open again. Through all the turbulence, the planet remains in one piece. The black soil is still cold. The sea of mass and the prince still clings.
The prince presses his hand into the soil one last time before standing, taller than the Olympus Mons, gravitational pull almost as strong as the nearest black hole. Threatening to fracture all nearby darkness and light if he and the mass wished. They do not fracture anything. Not yet.
If the silent observers choose to observe from so far away, then they will have to observe the prince fully. Then if one day a voice finally crosses the distance and says it’s name? He will hear it.