When Worlds Collide

Way down we go, down the gorge where the land and river’s hips mingle to the point where the earth and sky meets the abyss.

A saying that rings in the back of your mind as you look beyond and see how fast the lights flicker on when the sun hasn't fully rolled down as the blanket of night shades the sun to rest as the moon and stars awake as the guard the sparking wisp night. Or when you sit at your desk, tapping your pen against the bulk of the desk surface, until the beat pumps like your heart when your dreary eyes gloomily look to the clock and see how not even an hour has gone by since you’ve arrived.

Oh, the human perception. Oh, how it has evolved!

Oh, how the days of human’s which the days work has never felt less laborious yet still equivalently as long of time. Where in a brightly dimmed office room, a printer’s work can produce three times as much the reports and books than a thousand writers taking turns handwriting a page or two of scripture who slave away hundred of hours in the dead of night of the damp, heavily candle lit monastery, suffocating the same poisonous cloud of boredom.

Where it would take the multitude of carefully scheduled days of plowing the soil, till its toiled which can produce max amounts of crop by accompanying a well maintained bull to trudge the plow through the dirt, before it is cleaved for the seasonal feast. Where now, the bull and its kin segregated between the roamers that graze freely until it is time for one of them to be taken to the square, that has gotten to live with the air of freedom, whilst their cousins, the chained are locked in place with their people, cramped into the small flattened lot spaces of feed, which they are gorged until their weight caves in on them and their meat sold to the highest raw bitter for human consumption. Oh, how far humans have evolved themselves and the world… for better or for worse.

Now, if I were to take you to a world, that the plow was tinkered far before the blooming of Eden’s fields, and drawn by leaner quadrupeds easier to raise than the heavier set and toiling bull. A world, which its cities towered as the dynasties mingled across the Earth’s lands like the cooperation of ants, whilst the lions hovered above in their dense landscape that they separated by the water flow, but nonetheless each orbited through and above Earth as it always has since the spark of existence. But to describe this world as just an extraordinary evolution of life would be as much an understatement as looking at the abysmal night and that merely anything or nothing could be beyond such a gap in the human process.

Let us go to the sugar scented breezes of Honeydew, whose spring is just like much of this other world’s transitional flow of Kirajayg, where the daemons lived. In truth, the daemons aren’t the only residents of this world, but they certainly contribute to Kirajayg, a world morphed and surrounded by aether. As humans begin to exit their slow, cold winters, Kirbajayg moves along Earth’s Equator, the daemons of Honeydew gather together, merchants and carpenters, performers and musicians, young and old, as Honeydew brewers rake in the sales of determined drunkards for their annual drinking competition, with their families in tow, their children drooling from the scent of the fuming sweets, as their mothers and fathers remind them to not gorge themselves full of sweets, as performers dance through teh streets, musicians tailing them in smooth trots as they gathered the people to the Kangobee Trail, as farmers spread the best fermented honey for the start of the cropping season.

As humans transition to summer’s eve, Kirajayg has transitioned a quarter of Earth, and rotated outside of its interaction of Earth, as Honeydew implements its seasonal restrictions of water to the fields, as the sky smokes gray and the ground dampened with the occasional storm, to keep Lake Uruea from flooding the richer fields in the west, as more workers partner with the neighboring miner villages to dig away loose rock to prevent avalanche season in late fall, early winter, working until night’s abysmal blankets wrap upper Kirajayg’s skies, whilst half the human’s skies bask in the morning, as Honeydew residents head to sleep, until the flaming swords of light arise again next morn in upper Kirajayg as human’s afternoon yawns across the plains.

Somewhere, in Kirajayg lower, the afternoon stretches her autumn rays across the jagged spring passes of Limbo, where the native daemons take in the condemned mortals of the beyond, as knowledgeable assets of the Mammon Cycles, which daemons rise and fall as the chastisers of mortals. Some will stock about Limbo, little wisps of spirit adjusting to their new form of being in a world of aether, haunted by the cackles of the swifts songs echoing through the spoiled yoke ravines. Some further engulfed in the natural violent gales of the Basin canyons, may be cemented to the ravines as the wind rips at their faces. But, most no matter whom, it is their value that they are bound by. Many of these mortals find that daemons continually question them on their lives on Earth, their culture and psyche, and mortals that quenched their fear in turn asked the daemons of their lives in Kirajayg, their culture and psyche, many often rambling on for days, and integrated to that of the daemons themselves.

At human’s bristle in autumn, Kirajayg’s winter juggles about, the upper’s Honeydew suffering in the frigid cold, that slowed even the busiest streets of town, but still people collaborated in keeping its town secure. Down in the Basin, little trinkets of snow may be the sign of avalanche of snow, that secured the inlets of caverns as shelter to find security from a torrent of cold, whilst the rocky ravines often became slick as glass, that climbing up the jagged stones was a slip away from the silent hymn of death. 

But once every year, when the Earth tilts its head from the sun and Kirajayg rotates through Earth’s form, a spark glints, as the matter separating Earth and Kirajayg’s realms split apart, a boundary of translucent interaction, realms both built off of dust, a rift between aether and terrestrial matter, where the mortal and supernatural collide, and where a late mortal can return anew in the human realm and when daemons can interact with terrestrial matter and the beings that live in such a realm.