silent water memorial highway pov thing
You are a river. Your waters are grand, flowing steady, giving life to a desert named after you. You sweep through everything, bringing sediment and nutrient alike, watching seasons pass. You are there; time is not yet a construct. You are simply the river. And then, you die. You die slowly. You die because people take you apart, piece by piece, diverting you and taking away the balance you once knew. Everything is wrong. Everything is false. They are massacring you and all you are. They are calling you the wrong name because you did not have a name; you were the river, the valley, the desert, the bed beneath. You linger, when your last tangible moments flow. They build a road there. You hum beneath it. You try to break it down. They say that that highway has a weird erosion rate. They do not remember you. They do not remember you. It is a long highway, as you were a long river. It is almost exactly on your path. You do your best to bring life to the places that you can, but you are not the water you once were. You watch them die. You watch them build towns there. You watch them think those towns are weird, because you are in those towns, and they do not remember you. Eventually, you learn the meaning of what they called time. They make the road stronger. You become quiet. They become quieter, after a while. You become silent. You are silent water, a ghost of the river you were. Some time later, you are awoken. In one of those towns, there is a person. Someone quiet, someone softspoken, someone who likes watching time go by- and yet someone who wants to be seen. Remembered. Known. And they're right where your banks used to be. You become quiet again; then heard; then loud; then unavoidable. You did not know them. Sometimes, you wish you had. You know they're scattered throughout you now, but you have them. You are them. They are you. You, the river, the water, a force; and a very, very confused, yet endearing mind, wake in a small office in a small complex where your banks used to be. There is a badge on your desk. It reads; "Warden 62 - Interstate XXI." This does make you angry. You are the river, not the highway; you are the ground, not what is on it. And yet, you hesitate. Just for that moment. And in that split second of awakening, something shifts, and you're no longer in control. You are there. Always watching, intervening, diverting and moving and hesitating and listening. But you are not in control. This mind is. And this mind, confused, with a pounding headache and curious eye, picks up that badge. They pick up the task list in front of them, that has come from a printer; they read it, frown, put it back down, put on the badge, and walk outside. From the mind's point of view, this is strange, but common. Strange things happen in this world. Maybe they pissed off the government and got their memory wiped. That's a story they've heard. If so, getting pushed to a highway unit was probably the best outcome they could get. So why does it feel wrong? Why does it feel like they're standing on a graveyard? Why does it feel like- though the Warden 62 part of their badge feels like the best fitting name they've ever had- the Interstate XXI feels so wrong? And, more thought then vocalized, more feeling than sound, something reaches them. Silent water. There is water below you. Above you. It is constant. And you are where it's banks used to be. The mind and you live like that for two years. You speak more frequently. You learn more things. You gain more knowledge. You do some traffic broadcasts. And then, there is a knock on the door of your office, and it is a man with a gun who says that you- the river and you, Warden and you, as one and both together- would be best to walk with him peacefully. Instead, you hit him in the head very, very hard, shove him into the ground, steal his gun and keys, and start to drive far, far away, along where your banks used to be. And along the grounds of what you will start calling your Silent Water Memorial Highway, you find meaning.
