Dreams that make you think
The sun shone brightly on the afternoon of a mid-winter day, but offered no warmth to the men hustling like ants on the blacktop. It was a dry, cold type of day, one where your bones beg for more skin to wrap themselves in to fight off the impending bite of frost. Though brightly lit, I saw the silhouette of a ghastly figure trailing along the rooftops, and I followed in its wake.
The people were without expression, and their silence said more than any eulogy could. Without hope they ambled through their daily chores, ignoring me as I passed, speaking not when I would speak to them. The city seemed endless, but I crawled along the radius of urban explosion from which this monster emerged. As time went on, so did the sun, and the clouds had rolled across the heavens. As night seemed to fall, I found myself in front of an antiquated cathedral booming with people. It was daylight inside, brighter than anything I had ever seen, but it was silent as the masses were in prayer.
In the center of the aisle I stood, straining to hear the whims and wishes of the populace as they floated into the skies above, but I heard nothing. A flicker caught my eye, and I turned my head to the stained glass windows covering the walls of this ancient place of worship. The light of the world flickered like a broken light-bulb, and then everything faded. A ghastly grey film covered everything, and ash was raining from the skies outside.Stepping back, the glass tapestries were shifting between images, communicating a hellish story. The saints were wrapped in thorns and bathing in blood, dancing to the tune of a macabre mort.
Something urged me to avert my eyes and focus on the giant, stained glass window in which our lord Jesus resided. Everything went silent, and his lips moved behind a window pane. There was no sound, but I saw a torn desperation, and a single tear run down the glass, only to vanish in the gaping hole in his side. The wound was already dealt.
With that, there was a resounding crash followed by the shattering of glass, and a horrific screech pierced the silence of the church. The people therein were no more, but rather replaced by statues of ash fashioned in their image. I stood silent; in awe as the building was torn piece by piece by the storm above, but Jesus' portrait still hung in an empty sky. Lightning struck. It was Good Friday, and he was no more.
The people were without expression, and their silence said more than any eulogy could. Without hope they ambled through their daily chores, ignoring me as I passed, speaking not when I would speak to them. The city seemed endless, but I crawled along the radius of urban explosion from which this monster emerged. As time went on, so did the sun, and the clouds had rolled across the heavens. As night seemed to fall, I found myself in front of an antiquated cathedral booming with people. It was daylight inside, brighter than anything I had ever seen, but it was silent as the masses were in prayer.
In the center of the aisle I stood, straining to hear the whims and wishes of the populace as they floated into the skies above, but I heard nothing. A flicker caught my eye, and I turned my head to the stained glass windows covering the walls of this ancient place of worship. The light of the world flickered like a broken light-bulb, and then everything faded. A ghastly grey film covered everything, and ash was raining from the skies outside.Stepping back, the glass tapestries were shifting between images, communicating a hellish story. The saints were wrapped in thorns and bathing in blood, dancing to the tune of a macabre mort.
Something urged me to avert my eyes and focus on the giant, stained glass window in which our lord Jesus resided. Everything went silent, and his lips moved behind a window pane. There was no sound, but I saw a torn desperation, and a single tear run down the glass, only to vanish in the gaping hole in his side. The wound was already dealt.
With that, there was a resounding crash followed by the shattering of glass, and a horrific screech pierced the silence of the church. The people therein were no more, but rather replaced by statues of ash fashioned in their image. I stood silent; in awe as the building was torn piece by piece by the storm above, but Jesus' portrait still hung in an empty sky. Lightning struck. It was Good Friday, and he was no more.