Coral Hull: Prose: Thirty Six Hours: Dwindling - Gone

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: THIRTY SIX HOURS
DWINDLING - GONE

Only One is on her way to forest rest. Yet she is as dry as the structures surrounding her barrenness. Non-persons within the anti-life society aren't moist like the forest. She is losing herself in this place. She is colder and drier than she has ever been. She has been reduced to an unnatural state. Even the Hothouse has barely protected her skin from the pollution and heat.

Time is linear within the anti-life structure. She wants to reach back into the forest of the first dawn. She doesn't adapt to the structural mould at all. She oozes onto the cold dead soul of the footpath. She falls many times into the deafening noise, as she pushes forwards to the edge of the society of productivity, without becoming a product of the society itself.

Passing non-persons don't seem to notice her. She doesn't fit into their vision of themselves. She is unavailable and invisible. She is frightened that if they catch a glimpse of who she really is - they will squash her to death - or chop her down and stack her behind the back shed. She is fearful for herself and is rushing towards the edge.

She can no longer sense the essence of forest. Were the creatures all hiding and shy to her touch? Perhaps her scent is tainted now. Perhaps they sense her distance now and are no longer at ease with her. She opens her arms to late afternoon, letting the breeze move into her. She only wants to be alone in the place of her own dwelling.

On leaving the anti-life society, she is able to open herself more completely to the damage, that has been inflicted upon her form. To her great distress, the last and weakest electrical impulse of forest, trickle along her forearms, like distance and grief, and are lost.

In her despair she cries out to a near distant city of no-one. Ian Conservationist was right. The Dwindling Forest is gone. On the day of her leaving, the home of the platypus, of her own kind was gone. In the place of the forest, an industrial tree farm, a product of the society of productivity.

She is edging to all places where the night is edging. She will be all places at once in wind streaming sky. The night is blowing through her devastated form. All the life - the stream, the pebbles, the buttress roots, the shellfish - the electrical impulses of her own kind are gone.

    

This website is part of my personal testimony that has been guided by The Holy Spirit and written in Jesus' name.

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