Lies of the Old King –Memories of Madness
It is not clear when it starts. Maybe it already did. Maybe it will. A boy speaks, or remembers, or dreams — the words stumble forward but fall back again. What was silver water becomes red cloth, what was morning turns to night, what was a friend is already a corpse.
Sometimes the voice is young, counting summers. Sometimes it is older, too old, older than stone. He tells of lakes and fish, of quiet fields, but the images crack open, and inside them something bleeds. He tells of faces eaten by sickness, of bones that splinter like glass, of eyes that still see even when they fade.
The story walks, crawls, falls, rises. Tenses shift like shadows: past becomes present, present dissolves to memory, memory returns as prophecy. None of it aligns, yet all of it insists. The mistakes — if they are mistakes — become patterns. A code written in slips of the tongue.
And always the question lingers: is this dream, memory, or awakening? Each sentence answers, each sentence lies.
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