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theycallmepace A man steps into the small ritual chambers of his home to clean himself. It has been many days, and to prolong further would be both unhealthy and off-putting. He closes the door for privacy, then proceeds to disrobe. He does all of this in a trance. He needs guidance. Counsel. Closure. The one inside the chamber may help him. The One of Fire and Ice. He fondles the silver laden mechanism that allows communion with this One. As he does, rain begins to fall within the confines of the vat that holds the One inside. Steam fills the chamber. Today is a story of Fire.
The man waits for some time before stepping into the vat of rain and steam. He thinks without thought, his mind's eye blind to his wants and needs. He steps into the vat and closes the drapery to ensure the steam and rain pool to him alone. An action without thought, a movement with only purpose unknown to the man.
One is meant to stand within a vat such as this, but the man is defeated. In his trance he sits, gazing up at the One inside. It unleashes fiery rain with no end. This silver, multilocular god cries for the man from its multitudinous eyes. Is the man meant to look for a pattern in tears so divine? Is this the guidance he seeks? He allows the Many-eyed God to shed its white-hot tears upon him, looking for patterns in the chaos. In this cacophony of sound and feeling, there must be a meaning to the flood upon him. He watches the streams upon his body, as varied and as expansive as the ones upon the Earth. Is the answer within himself? He stares upon the ceiling, a fog obscuring any details in the likely unremarkable landscape. Upon thought, however, the man realizes what he hopes to be a great truth: If I am the land upon which our mighty waters flow, then is not this fog around me the endless sky that envelopes us all? The man is pleased at this revelation, until he realizes he knows not what it could mean.
He looks again at the Many-eyed God. Its coiled tail lies limp, but the man knows better. Such a beast that controls both Fire and Ice is never at rest. Time has lost meaning. He knows not how long he has sat here musing in the hopes that some great truth would be revealed to him. Some grand destiny to explain his troubles. Maybe there is none. Maybe he simply is troubled. In the end, if we all carry the world, we all are carrying all that we know and love. The man hopes his grip is strong enough.
The man does not think of anything remarkable for some time. He sits, watching the great rivers upon his body, deciding that the real work must begin soon.
A great sign was coveted in this ritual. A piece of the story still being written that was unknown to the man. Something that would explain the violence within his mind. Something to stand as a vanguard to such demons. Such signs do not come easily, especially to people like the man.
His thoughts race as he begins, using the soaps and oils within the vat to cleanse himself. He had hoped to cleanse his mind as one does the skin, but such a task cannot be achieved with ease. Time may have lost meaning to the man, but it did not stop for him. The tears of the Many-eyed God have grown cold. To stay would be to endure a story of Ice.
The man, true to his character, is weary from not much at all. He cannot take more signs leading him to nowhere. He fondles the handle used for communion, and the Many-eyed God's crying ceases. As he stands, he realizes the folly of his ritual: To attempt to find easy answers without any real work. To look for patterns in the world's chaos. To believe that the Many-eyed God held answers when it was itself made by man. Fallible man. Man-made rain holds no secrets. The world, the real world, holds its secrets tightly, yet is willing to share with anyone who will listen. The man has chosen to be blind and deaf to the solutions and secrets of the world. He has shut his eyes and plugged his ears and pouted like a child left out of a game. Standing in the vat, with no tears from above to keep him warm, he has grown too cold to be petulant.
In looking for solutions where there are none, the man has left the self-imposed ritual unsettled. This is no different than how he entered. He finds himself displaced more and more from the very things that used to come so easy. He cannot muster effort for clothes, so he simply wraps a towel around himself and vacates the chamber. He sees his love, his partner, and knows he must not let go of the thoughts in his mind. He kisses her and tells her he loves her. When his mind is clouded, and violent with storms, she is the lighthouse that is unmistakable in any squall.
The man retreats to their shared bedchambers and then retreats further into his mind. If there is no great truth given to those who lie under the Many-eyed God, does he dismiss the conclusions he came to? Are they mad ramblings or epiphanies? Should he not be in charge of his own destiny? Should he not carry the worlds he loves with him every day, no matter their weight? He is deathly scared of failure, but isn't erring human? Whether right or wrong, the man does not want to forget such things. So, he does what one does when they want to remember: he writes. Of course, the man being who he is, he also embellishes. Maybe now his account of his ritual will matter to him. Maybe now he will learn from it. If we do not learn, we do not grow.
If we do not grow, our demons always win.
The man waits for some time before stepping into the vat of rain and steam. He thinks without thought, his mind's eye blind to his wants and needs. He steps into the vat and closes the drapery to ensure the steam and rain pool to him alone. An action without thought, a movement with only purpose unknown to the man.
One is meant to stand within a vat such as this, but the man is defeated. In his trance he sits, gazing up at the One inside. It unleashes fiery rain with no end. This silver, multilocular god cries for the man from its multitudinous eyes. Is the man meant to look for a pattern in tears so divine? Is this the guidance he seeks? He allows the Many-eyed God to shed its white-hot tears upon him, looking for patterns in the chaos. In this cacophony of sound and feeling, there must be a meaning to the flood upon him. He watches the streams upon his body, as varied and as expansive as the ones upon the Earth. Is the answer within himself? He stares upon the ceiling, a fog obscuring any details in the likely unremarkable landscape. Upon thought, however, the man realizes what he hopes to be a great truth: If I am the land upon which our mighty waters flow, then is not this fog around me the endless sky that envelopes us all? The man is pleased at this revelation, until he realizes he knows not what it could mean.
He looks again at the Many-eyed God. Its coiled tail lies limp, but the man knows better. Such a beast that controls both Fire and Ice is never at rest. Time has lost meaning. He knows not how long he has sat here musing in the hopes that some great truth would be revealed to him. Some grand destiny to explain his troubles. Maybe there is none. Maybe he simply is troubled. In the end, if we all carry the world, we all are carrying all that we know and love. The man hopes his grip is strong enough.
The man does not think of anything remarkable for some time. He sits, watching the great rivers upon his body, deciding that the real work must begin soon.
A great sign was coveted in this ritual. A piece of the story still being written that was unknown to the man. Something that would explain the violence within his mind. Something to stand as a vanguard to such demons. Such signs do not come easily, especially to people like the man.
His thoughts race as he begins, using the soaps and oils within the vat to cleanse himself. He had hoped to cleanse his mind as one does the skin, but such a task cannot be achieved with ease. Time may have lost meaning to the man, but it did not stop for him. The tears of the Many-eyed God have grown cold. To stay would be to endure a story of Ice.
The man, true to his character, is weary from not much at all. He cannot take more signs leading him to nowhere. He fondles the handle used for communion, and the Many-eyed God's crying ceases. As he stands, he realizes the folly of his ritual: To attempt to find easy answers without any real work. To look for patterns in the world's chaos. To believe that the Many-eyed God held answers when it was itself made by man. Fallible man. Man-made rain holds no secrets. The world, the real world, holds its secrets tightly, yet is willing to share with anyone who will listen. The man has chosen to be blind and deaf to the solutions and secrets of the world. He has shut his eyes and plugged his ears and pouted like a child left out of a game. Standing in the vat, with no tears from above to keep him warm, he has grown too cold to be petulant.
In looking for solutions where there are none, the man has left the self-imposed ritual unsettled. This is no different than how he entered. He finds himself displaced more and more from the very things that used to come so easy. He cannot muster effort for clothes, so he simply wraps a towel around himself and vacates the chamber. He sees his love, his partner, and knows he must not let go of the thoughts in his mind. He kisses her and tells her he loves her. When his mind is clouded, and violent with storms, she is the lighthouse that is unmistakable in any squall.
The man retreats to their shared bedchambers and then retreats further into his mind. If there is no great truth given to those who lie under the Many-eyed God, does he dismiss the conclusions he came to? Are they mad ramblings or epiphanies? Should he not be in charge of his own destiny? Should he not carry the worlds he loves with him every day, no matter their weight? He is deathly scared of failure, but isn't erring human? Whether right or wrong, the man does not want to forget such things. So, he does what one does when they want to remember: he writes. Of course, the man being who he is, he also embellishes. Maybe now his account of his ritual will matter to him. Maybe now he will learn from it. If we do not learn, we do not grow.
If we do not grow, our demons always win.
no subject
Date: 2026-09-17 11:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-20 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2026-09-17 11:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-20 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-17 11:47 pm (UTC)I love the conclusion especially, "If we do not learn, we do not grow.:
I like the idea of carrying the worlds we love with us :)
no subject
Date: 2026-09-20 03:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-18 02:15 am (UTC)Joking aside, I think this is a solid piece. Any time something "simple" is used to describe one's emotions, and how difficult a day can feel just by the ACT of that "simple" thing, it can carry so much meaning and weight. And truly, it does here. It's a fantasy-turned-metaphor of mental health and your current place in life, as well as your self-perception and awareness (and/or lack thereof, depending on the moment).
Good call on the separation of the last few lines as well. It works. It strikes the heart. It holds.
I love this, and I love you. <3
no subject
Date: 2026-09-20 03:38 am (UTC)The simple is so very hard sometimes. Especially when there is no reason for it to be.
The last lines mean a lot to me. I hope they hold.
I love you <3
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Date: 2026-09-18 02:53 am (UTC)But I also really liked where the humor eventually leads. The realization that there probably won’t be a magical sign and that finding answers requires actually engaging with life gave the piece a lot of weight. And then writing becomes part of that process: maybe the experience didn’t provide the revelation he wanted, but turning it into a story lets him examine it, remember it, and possibly learn from it. The final thought about needing to grow so our demons don’t win was a really strong ending.
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Date: 2026-09-20 03:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-18 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-20 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-18 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2026-09-18 07:16 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2026-09-18 07:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-20 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-20 03:09 am (UTC)This made me smile:
So, he does what one does when they want to remember: he writes. Of course, the man being who he is, he also embellishes.
Probably true of everyone in this competition. :)
A very enjoyable read.
Dan
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Date: 2026-09-20 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-20 05:17 pm (UTC)Nicely done!
no subject
Date: 2026-09-21 01:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-21 01:42 am (UTC)I liked this wording here. So evocative, but using such simple words.
weary from not much at all
I've been there. Sometimes even ordinary things can weigh you down.
no subject
Date: 2026-09-21 05:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-21 07:07 pm (UTC)Also, I have always found water to be something that clarifies the emotions and soothes the soul - whether it be by a river, stream, ocean, or just standing in the shower, there is something that...maybe doesn't bring all the answers, but brings us home into ourselves and the present in a way that helps us to figure out the rest.
Thank you for the lovely light-hearted piece. :)
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Date: 2026-09-22 02:41 pm (UTC)If we do not grow, our demons always win." Such truth! The attempt to wash away our demons was a brilliant image. Thanks for this!
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Date: 2026-09-24 01:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-24 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-09-25 10:36 pm (UTC)If we do not grow, our demons always win. Too true.
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Date: 2026-09-27 04:27 am (UTC)I also like the bit, something about, learning things with no work and how that is not supposed to be a thing.