four millennia stretch between us
you with your reed stylus
I with my ink and keyboard
four millennia ago, the goddess whispered in your ear
four millennia later, the dark gods whisper in mine
we are not so different, you and I
we are not so different, you and I
with our poetry and our pleading
our devotion and determination
your words reverberate in my chest
your heartbeats echo through the ages
I pray mine stand the test of time
If you haven’t noticed, this story is being told by an unreliable narrator. But then again, what does that even mean? If I’m the sole source, the primary source, then isn’t my interpretation the truth? If it’s not, you’ll never know otherwise. Maybe it broke my mother’s heart when I left, abandoning the empire I should have inherited from the man she loved and lost. Maybe my brother gritted his teeth as he prepared to shoulder it all as my shadow finally moved and left him alone in the spotlight. Maybe my father died disappointed in himself for carving me in his likeness, wondering only at the very end who I really was beneath his mirror mask. Who knows? Maybe they tried a hundred times to reach me but gave up when all they struck was my perfect smile. You’ll never know, though, and neither will I. My reality is the story’s reality, and my reality is full of drugs and sex and the hole inside me that nothing seems to fill.
the cards keep telling me to calm down, slow down, take a break, focus on the journey, but if I have only one life then it’s too little time, and if I have a thousand lives it’s still too little time, and if I live forever I’ll still never write it all and if I can’t do that, then what good am I? and I think once I made a vow that’s written now deep in my blood and marrow, coded in my DNA, the framework of all my hopes and dreams, and maybe once I was a princess priestess, maybe once I was a vestal virgin, maybe once I was the mountaintop oracle, but always and forever I was I am the scribe, the scribe, the scribe in different bodies, different times, but always at the core just the vow, just the devotion, and if I pause for even a moment that’s time spent, words lost, I know the cards speak truly but stillness feels like death and in the silence I can hear the crystalline crumbling of atoms and atmospheres, for what is the opposite of creation but entropy, ceaseless and unfeeling?
nothing to say for a while here, just a great stillness within and maybe the merest ripples on the surface, just the wind playing over the water, though, not anything of any real consequence passing beneath, but last night at least a precious gift from the Mother, two of the lost ones, most faithful and beloved of sons, and my dream tears as I held them in my arms and thanked them for coming, for visiting, for reminding me I am never alone and that they watch over me always, spirits that walk all worlds, souls that reach through time, and even if I have nothing to say this morning I am still grateful for that, for them, for Her
You ask why the Moon murdered the Sun. But have you noticed no one else does, not even the Sun himself? I’m the villain; it’s just expected I’ll do something horrible. No one asks why a crazy person does something crazy, after all. They know these things just happen. And sure, I may not be a villain in the traditional sense, but I’m still the wretched one, the insane one, the cruel one. I’m still the antagonist, even if the protagonist loves me. So you know why I haven’t told you the truth? Because no matter how you tell the story, they’ll still decide I’m its villain. There’s no point in fighting it. I don’t have that kind of energy. He wanted me to be the villain, too, though for a different reason. At least with him, it was a good thing. Something that felt worthwhile, a role I could be praised for playing. But still, it wasn’t really my choice. I wanted– Well. It doesn’t matter what I wanted. Maybe I never really knew anyway.
I can hear the Lady’s laughter as I look back through years and years of writing. See? She says, voice rich with amusement. You have always been writing to me. You just didn’t know it at the time. And She’s right; it’s all here. Prayer, supplication, veneration, burning questions and stubborn faith. I knew Her, just not Her name or true form. I thought it was Providence, that remote and unfathomable concept, which moved the universe on the grandest scale, when all along divinity walked right beside me. I wonder, did She mind my ignorance? No, She answers, ever the patient mother, I knew you would see me when it was time. As a kitten begins its life with eyes closed and must move through the world blind for a time, so too must you. Do kittens rush the journey to sight? Of course not. Your eyes opened at the proper time and now you can explore your world with a new sense. I think, that’s very metaphorical. She purrs through Her laughter. It’s not a metaphor; you’ve always been a cat. Physical form doesn’t matter to the spirit, or to a mother.