Odd, he supposed. Great, spiraling, mounds of metal and with a foreign sort of elasticity that felt plastic enough to be acceptable, but resistant enough to further emphasize their dominating presence. I guess they were red, if you looked closely. Crimson might be more accurate. But so deep. Objects constructed by the living shouldn't be allowed to have such a majestic hue.
Their size helped too. If the inanimate could exude feeling, then these monstrosities would be weeping with the weight of their own imposition. Simply seeing the objects grow in the distance miles before arrival paled in contrast to confronting the monoliths physically. Touching their indifferent shells, stretching one's neck further and further up until one becomes dizzy with comprehension, how incredibly contained are we by comparison?
Turn your face up. Try to spot the tip of the closest tower. Imagine how tall they must be, then imagine something still taller. Sweep your eyes skyward until you become lost in the supreme volume of the great, dark, things.
If one had to apply measurement or description, it could be said that they were hexagonal. For if anything can compete with such mass, numbers and their fantastical possibilities fit the closest. Neither do I even know their height. No one has ever bothered to measure. Why even try? Giant, deep red, terrifying, unfathomable, indifferent to their stark dissimilarity with the dead, dusty wastes that sprawl around their location, praising height with the lack of the same. Illogically, they defy the containment inherent within a sentient mind.
I have come to peace with not knowing.
No comments:
Post a Comment