mutated

Sulking, pitifully, laying in the grass, damp from the dew. It was such a letdown of colossal proportions. Dreams were beginning to seem logical, now that reality had eclipsed the line of unbelievable. He had walked through the tempid, viscous wall, effortlessly, impossibly so, and yet what he found was a world even further entrenched in fantasy. He had just come from a place where he could levitate and now he was in a place where he could morph back and forth form solid to liquid, from dirt to water, from oil to ice. And for what good he mused, insincerely, being the only one left to bear it witness. How could the end of all things trump his yesterday off-white days?

In a flash, it was his feet, eyes, heart, skin, blood, body that burdened him, doomed him, salvaged him, here, in the wasteland of what was once the planet. He was just an unwitnessed catastrophe, miracle, genetic anomaly, sentenced to forever unravel the before with the after. He was now, just a person, a mutated superman with no hope for glory. All the power, beauty and freedom to do nothing but die alone next to the pulsating dandelions, crawling like sea urchins with legs towards the sea. He thought of following them, thinking all might still be normal in the black oblivion of the Atlantic. Maybe he was meant to go there. Maybe it was his home now.