Current location:	home
Current mood:	resolute
Current music:	Bonny Portmore
Entry tags:	prayer

A prayer
Hello!

Dear Mother, how are you? How are my friends and family on the other side? It is all getting rather strange, these days, for me. I wonder how you are doing? It gets tiring sometimes, here, in the shadowed world of matter. i hope things are good for you all in the realm of spirit?

It's getting rather scary here, you know. Yeah, i know i'm probably just panicking, but this time, i'm a mortal - and a rather young one, after all. This incarnation is getting a hang of what he's supposed to be doing. It's just getting really, really lonely. Which is funny, cos i have so many friends, yeah?

But they don't - or they can't - see you anymore... and the places i go to, to find you, they grow smaller and lesser.

The tall grassy lands, the hills, the little copses, they are all gone now, replaced by banks and luxury condos and carparks. The wild pack isn't there anymore; they've probably been killed and shot down for the safety of the new human denizens. I don't know where the snakes and the birds and the frogs went too. Even that little mound - where I leave my flowers, my fruit, and my tea and wine in your name - they took that away from me, my friends. That place where I sit to commune.

First they took us with fire, that they claimed was an accident. Then the surveyors came, and gouged you so deeply with the iron dragons. And now they build a mausoleum of cement over my memory of you. I am glad some other humans found a home to stay, but still i miss you. Mostly i guess i miss hearing you all the time, and talking to you. It's something nobody would remember, when i pass and fade as well - for i have no tribe to sing to these days. They are too busy for us. They don't believe in us anymore. They would kill you and replace you with their golems.

This place breaks the spirit, Mother. i don't know what to do sometimes. I throw myself into work, mostly. Around me, i hear the darkness gather and its teeth grind, and it suckles upon the freshly broken dreams of the young and the constantly revived despairs of the old. It is a subtle thing, not carved in hellions' flame or tipped upon wyvern's stings. There is a sickness in the spirit - that afflicts the people; and their panacea... well. that is a shape in my head that they would bid my soul to wear which I would not don.

It is hard for me not to cry when I see my friends walk to their houses of worship, and they have so many things. They have books, and they train their priests. Their young believe in their truth, and that is good, but... their ways will destroy us. And they know it, and they plan it, and they do it consciously, and they are protected by Gilgamesh. The laws of man are comforting things to them, a blanket, an invisible veil, that shields their hands from damnable spots of the blood that should stain their soul.

and Mother, this land itself - the spirit of you - it is changing - and that is why i pray to you now with this electronic image - which is hydra-like and infinite. i do not know who will read this, or why, or when. Maybe someone can sense you in these words. Maybe someone will taste the salt of my eyes in this scentless ink that repeats itself across time and space in the minds of the humans. Maybe we can break the illusion, for a while, and wake up from our sleep.

No, i am not jealous of the other children, no. i have gotten over that. And yes, i grieve, for my own loss as much as yours, and also that they will never know you. It is human to weep, and pain is not the sole province of man. And in this weeping, i know passing, and in this grief, i know winter, which breaks me from the bonds of digital manipulations of time...

But still, i have my own house of worship for you, in this palace of my mind, built upon memories and experiences, a narrative citadel. I can still hear you when you laugh, bells twinkling in some unknown flat-owner's window, and I can see you in the shudder of the mynah sits on the grass, feathers all rough-fluffed, eyes wild and beak askew. The blind clarinet player's midnight howls as empty glass eyes stare at me from unsleeping office towers where the lights are never allowed to die.

So, thank you, for blessing me with your greetings and reminders of the empyreal.

and i can still see you, so i try my best to do what i can, for those among the scattered tribes who feel this pain too, that they can't see clearly, or can't express, except through the ideas of dead white men.

lend me some of your strength, and sensitivity, and fill my heart with the humbleness of the little beetle. i need such to soothe the minds of men, to ease them from the throes of hatred and hidden jingo, before they birth the nightmares they entertain, and realities collide and shatter.

Oh, and this wish deep inside me - that i could just go to the steppes, or the mountains for a while - soon, soon. In a few years perhaps. But ironically, i am a child of the city, born and bred in this concrete jungle. Still, it can only do me good to learn from the older voices. But i must remain, for now, for there is shaman's work to be done, and the other friends i have learned from - i do not think they will return, from where they are now. They're happier there, and i'm truly glad for them. But i'm just an old-fashioned kind guy, i guess. i'm born the son of the sons of peasants and immigrants. And we have our links to the land that we cannot forget, that we can never truly sever. In this hope, i shatter the strictures of thunder placed by those who would inherit the sky-mien.

Thank you, Mother, for going on and sailing into the deep sea of stars another day, for bearing us upon your back.

Good-bye. It's been good talking, we should catch up again. Please take care of yourself.