Incontinence: Souls Passion

Incontinence: Souls Passion

I was snatched from the world.

Buffeted immediately by the winds that torment me still, I did not fall, no; I was torn up by Hell like a shallow weed. There was no graceless descent, only the storm. Constantly, I am whipped about by the mercy-less currents. Rain and hail and fierceness are all I feel. And the ground, the unforgiving hard-tack earth below. I am not always tossed; often I am flung, free of the gale, and left to fall crashing to the ground. There is no rest for me, broken on the stones. Great beasts roam the lands around us. Their huge feet trample and kick us as they pass. Huge, taloned hands, scoop us up with dirt and rubble, a dozen in a hand full, and toss us back into the storm. And through it all, never do I touch a soul.

Though our numbers are as great as the raindrops, I have never made contact with another soul here. As if the very air is too thick to allow contact, we never even brush one another. Often the hope is there, as you twirl past another tortured soul. You can see it mirrored in the eyes, and the terror, and the disappointment of missing the remembered intimacy, again. We reach for one another in hope on the dusty earth, seeking an escape from our tortures. And scream as those hopes are dashed to bits before our eyes, or flung into Madam Gale, lost forever.