One by one they were vanishing, each point of light blinking out of existence without a sound. I did try to warn them, oh how I tried, but no one would even consider the insane notion. I couldn’t blame them though. All of them, in their glorified mindset, could not even grasp the notion that something was terribly wrong. What is one point of light to them? How little they knew.
Now here I lie, staring upwards toward the ever darkening heavens. Another point of light vanishes. Why do you dim so? Your beauty is a gift, this you cannot deny! But for what purpose if beauty, if the ones you display it to ignore it. The hills grow silent in solitude. The grass stands with what little dignity it has left, no longer holding up the blankets it once wore to bear the awed gazers of the heavens. No. The once crowded places sit in the growing dark, one longing figure to occupy the once sacred place.
Wake up you sleeping destroyers. Not by direct means are you so destructive, but by your ignorance to the source of your first dreams. The very dreams that built the life you now live. Now you ignore the beauty of the dream weavers, absorbed in the world that has been created for you, and they now run dry. They find no purpose, no hope in creating in the minds of those that gaze toward them, and they die in despair.
Only a few remain, their dimming light fading ever so quickly. Soon there will be total darkness. Soon the dreams of man will cease to exist. May you find peace you dream weavers, for the hope of truly living dies with you. Tonight is the night we fully become the monsters we created for ourselves, unthinking, unloving, uncaring, as the last light of hope fades.
Here lie the dreams of all mankind, at the age and time where the stars ran dry.
Of the dream,
Mythwriter
