Tumult

Another mystery/riddle of sorts...

He sits, staring blankly at the confused lines racing about him. They twist, they turn, they jump around him and over points that have lost their motivation on their way forward. They tangle, entangle, and leave only papers that whimsically blow past him as the only memories that they ever existed at all. Inside the chaos sounds the noise and inside the noise everyone hears and everyone is. He is a part; each human is a part; there is only one body, there was only one body, and there always will be only one body unless the screeches sound. The screeches, those that deafen even his trained ears, the only ones with the power to halt a movement as great as one such as this. The body is reduced, then replaced, the cell count decreased to almost nothing - and then nothing when the intermediates usher away the originals as the screeches echo off the chipping paint. Time halts and the warriors war as the chaos builds elsewhere, anxiously lying in wait for the day in which the stairs to Hell shall once again be opened. They redirect themselves for what seems to those afflicted like too long of an eternity, scrambling for new mountains to wind around. He waits…and he waits…and he doesn’t wait long for the bells to ring. But soon after the trumpets sound and the nature fighters leave the lines rush back in, those caught in the trap of gibberish tracing paths through the colored remnants of those past until they find their way. Those in no need of counseling brush on by, thankful the screeches have gone silent. But the screeches will never stop sounding. They do not reform the body; only come and leave it as it was before.

Perhaps the question is why.