|
The blade glistened in the moonlight. "Where was this made?" Blain asked himself, "and why did Sensi entrust me with it." He cursed him under his breath as a mist started to settle upon field.
The setting sun cast the entirety of Blain's vision in a deepening crimson, and the hundreds of campfires reminded him of stars on a bloodred night's sky. No music played, no revelers danced, it was not the time anymore. It was never time for joy anymore. Blain wrapped the blade in dark cloth and readied himself to move from his hiding, it was time.
__________________
"Life is possible only with illusions. And so, the question for the science of mental health must become an absolutely new and revolutionary one, yet one that reflects the essence of the human condition: On what level of illusion does one live?"
-- Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death
|