At the end of the world, there is only salt, rimmed like cheap drinks, on black rocks. There are places beyond comprehension, but they are surrounded by the known, by gravel and the smell of storms, by whirlpools and teeth.
When I meet the cusp of the earth I feel the raw wind of emptiness, of trenches–there is ice under my flesh and road grit in every place that hurts. My boots skid at the slopes that lead to this place of dishonor, slipping past balconies and hanging gardens, my hands catching on glasses of water and flowering vines. I take what I can, but I don’t hold anything for long. Both waiters and debutants wear ash on their crowns and eyelashes, though I do not meet their gaze and try not to blink. I do not consider the remnants of self, though I know I too wear them, that I am soaked in the blood of my ancestors.
I can feel the call of the infinite beyond like hunger at the end of nights, and I let it pull me to balconies and then past them, taking winding mountain goat steps down the jagged stones. In the chandeliers behind me, I am reflected, scattered, swallowed in each crystal chime.
My balance is deft, though the occasional rock shakes beneath my step I never tumble, never stagger. I can adapt to all things. I do not mind the beached fish, some rotted to bones, others less lucky, stepping over and around them as best I can. When I reach the sand it is not long before I feel the sharpness of something, and know that they are here too, just covered a little better. I could not smell the rot over perfume, but it is closer now.
When I reach the ocean I do not pause, wading beyond the rocks, feeling how the tide sucks at me.
I greet the depths with blood, the warmest thing for miles, and I sink, as all things do.
A. X. Bernkastle
Unearthed in Florida, haunting viewers like you since.