There is a Kraken in the Deep. Monsters that dwell just out of sight, out of mind, and reaching out across nightmares with tendrils so pervasive that it seems almost as if they interlace the entirety of those dreaming worlds. They range the backdrop seeking, moving, while unnamed, unthanked actors fill your mind with dreary, drowning, dizzy thoughts, and you are paralyzed. These actors are the dead, recently disposed, none of which could move on before being trapped here between your thoughts and those horrid creatures, in the Deep. In the Dark.
Few set foot there, fewer still survive it when they do. Certain people thorughout the history of time have managed, but always they come back… twisted, not quite right. Not just in the head, either. Some come back with twisted bodies. One limb out of proportion, one limb rended too high or too low. The whole thing is beyond human comprehension, but perhaps that’s why the Kraken seek us out. Their minds need ours. Need that tantalizing transcendent thought process that allows us to ignore the lacing of their tentacles wrapped around our lives. Perhaps they crave what we have, life, love, adoration, notice, notariety. If this is the case, then why do they not speak in tongues other than whispered threats veiled beneath the sweet candy seduction of the world?
Or perhaps they are simply feeding. Like a frenzy of sharks, tearing us mind from mind, limb from limb, perhaps that is why they gather at the edges of our periphery, of our notice. Like Alice flailing down a dark hole, perhaps we too, are children lost in a garden far too dangerous for our comprehension. These creatures in the dark, these beings that dwell in the Deep places of the world. Perhaps they like us. Perhaps they wish us peace. In death, in dreaming, in desire. But that may not be the case. Long have their appendages scoured our minds, reaching in and finding new places to poke and prod.
These places, they fill up with seabrine and deep anguish. These places they deposit their stories next to Poe’s raven and Shakespeare’s Midsummer’s dream. Places impossible to reach with a normal hand. Places that one cannot possibly experience alone, ever, never. These places, they fill up with sorrow and world-ending-heartbreak, or perhaps hunger. These places, are where dreams are made, dreams that taunt, tantalize, torture. These are the Deep places, in our mind, and in the world, and in the bits just out of sight, we are broken across them like waves on rocks, algae clinging, seaweed choking us in these newer, deeper places. We drift, along these currents, and perhaps that is where creation comes from.
Perhaps, we are simply the Eve to a new Adam. Perhaps these creatures need us more than we know.
Or perhaps they just want a good show with their dinner.