There was something poetic in the silence and darkness, like the lull between heartbeats or the calm before the storm. The sky was like a storm in itself, whether it be waxing or waning was impossible to tell, but all was open as you stood on the coast of the Great Island. All mixtures of greys and greens and orange haze darkened the heavens and, yet, brightened it to a surreal glow that shouldn't be possible in any world, on any plane of existence. There was a sad, desperate exhaustion to the environment, like it'd just been put through a hard day's work and come out with nothing in return but age and aches. Yes, there was calm.

But, also, there was chaos. A deafening chaos that didn't make its presence known, didn't take a form, didn't taste or smell or look or sound like anything, but still managed to flood one's senses and make muck of their mind. Like an acrid, black smoke, the chaos had control over everything while allowing 'control' over nothing. One would expect to fall beneath the weight of it all, but no one ever did. They were all left standing, to endure it. To pull through every morning knowing that it would never end, but always wishing earnestly that it would.

Then, a streak of electric blue-whiteness split the blackened, bracken sky and, as if an invisible blade had split the sky open, rain began to fall. Thunder roared and in the distance a cloud began to shift and form as if caught in a bizarre wind until it pulled into the hazy, slightly irregular form of a large black bird. This, in itself, was strange, but then the bird began to break away from the sky on its own accord and it tore over the horizon like a hunter barreling down on its prey with such ferocity that the mere look of it would chill the marrow in your bones.

This was Chaos Incarnate. This was the heart-stopping, drowning sense of despair and loss that sat stagnant in the air, like a forgotten past that chose the least opportune moment to rear up again. This was the shadow, the sole form of all that is wrong with the world. This was the Seven Deadly Sins, the contents of Pandora's Box, the skeletons in the closet of Life.

With a gasping whoosh! like a fire-blast and the hoarse cry of lost souls, the crow flew overhead with the impending feeling of Apocalyptic nightmares. It curved downward and dove into the forest to lose itself among the trees, to spread like a plague to all things living and taking control of all things that weren't. It was like tendrils of nightmares, curling its way into one's mind and poisoning their existence, destroying their very being.

The clouds shifted again, the wind blew and leaves rustled in the trees that stood as camouflage for that Wicked Thing, and the sea rose and fell with each crashing wave. The rain didn't stop its downpour and that eerie glow was barely visible though each drop of water that hazed and distorted the horizon. Lightning flashed again, a feeble attempt to shed light on the darkened world, but there was nothing left to see. Hope had been released long ago. Sorrow was all that remained - sorrow, and regret. Regret for what had been done, and regret for those who had done it.

The old world has been lost; the old reality has been distorted beyond repair. Shadows walk by day and skeletons by night, to dance in the indistinct glow of the moon. Say good bye to times before and say good bye to the lives long lost, for there is nothing here but spider's webs and nightmares.

Welcome to the new reality.