Nobody else could hear it, but I could. Screaming. Endless screaming. They were preserved forever as flickering fragments, the disjointed memories and chipped beliefs of who they had been before. Perhaps those parts might once have held great importance or perhaps never had at all. Whoever they might have been, all that was left of them now were writhing souls caught in their eternal death throes. 

But then there were the Mortal Relics. 

The first of their kind I encountered was as loud as he was unrelenting. His conviction was so absolute that through its steadfastness he had escaped oblivion, and instead become a concentrated aspect of himself. Of course, such self assuredness is rarely found in the agreeable. 

He ranted and raved without cease, though no response ever came. A loop that repeated the same frustrations day after day, echoing down the corridors like the worst kind of bad radio station. No one recognised his genius. No one saw his pain. He was an undiscovered prodigy. A leader in artistic talent. If only people could see him. If only the visions in his mind would translate onto the page the way he wanted. Fame, money, recognition, he deserved it all and more.

But he’d show them. He’d show them all. Everyone would know his name. His name…. What was his name?

He was… Art?

The paint. The canvas. Soft bristles of a brush. The wet of varnish. The cool wood of a frame. Pigment and texture and colour. It was him, all of it, all of it inside of him waiting to burst out and splatter the walls. Thick and thin, red and yellow, flesh and blood.

But how was he supposed to paint when he couldn’t see, couldn’t feel past the turmoil of his inner creation?

Why was it dark? Where was he? Why….

Why?

                                                                    Why…?

                                     Is this?

                                                                                        Is…

                          Am I…?

Where am I?