I've seen beyond this
dance that immortals call the dreaming. I've
seen beyond logic, and linearity. I've
seen the birth of things I never imagined possible. But seeing isn't enough. Not for me. Inner sight is a lot like raw power. Burdensome, paradoxical, often frightening. Especially for those of us who haven't slain
our empathy. Those who still wish to
walk with our brethren instead of subjugating them. That's why I do this, I suppose. That's why I show you these things, sweet ones.
Because I'm incredibly lonely, and because
I know something of what it means to suffer. I wouldn't wish that kind of loneliness or
pain on anyone. But we all suffer in
varying ways, don't we? This fallen fractal
is built upon it. Anxiety, insecurity,
exploitation. Perhaps these visions I
offer mean nothing in the end. Digital
ghosts, here and then gone. Like flesh. Like ash in the breeze of a new day. But the romantic in me would have it that such
workings are kept somewhere in the unseen. A place in eternity, where all kindness is
kindled and held in the promise of our Father.
I hope I'm able to bring comfort to you in
some way, wherever you may be. If you
are unable to see, let me see for you. If
you're unable to fight, let me fight for you. With vision, and song. There’s a part of me that wishes none of this
was true. A part that wishes I wasn’t an
angel. A thing of ragged wing, bleeding
images torn from dream.
But I am, unfortunately. Even now, in this mortal flesh. I suppose I don't really know how to be
anything else. Emissary, writer,
wanderer. My waking life is full of
masks and charms and lies that protect. Sometimes
it feels like Kasi is the only real thing about me. Like the depth of me is measured only in how
far I fell. Song to star to bitter
soil. But those thoughts are just tired indulgences
in the end. None of this is about me. These visions and hidden choirs. These worlds behind the world. They're about service, empathy and
honour. Strength and solace, humbly
offered to those who might find some use or quickening in this work. I still have things to show you all. There are still interesting things to see, I
think. Beyond logic or linearity. Beyond this fallen dreaming that mortals call
the real. I've seen such vibrant life,
my friends, even in those places after life. The impossible suddenly possible, in an
instant. I've seen it awaken the
sleeping and resurrect the dead. Love,
as living promise, even in total darkness. Infinite brilliance shining in a sea of
black.
The dream comes and the
dream goes. Grey skies, ethereal. A shadowed morning, of day as almost
night. The scent of spray. The knowledge of crashing wave, yet all is
silent. Or almost silent. I can hear or imagine a faint, distant melody.
A young woman comforting someone with
song. Perhaps herself. A dancer at eternity's edge. I stand and listen, a fist pressed against my
chest. Waiting for something. I'm speaking softly, under my breath. I'm calling out names, I think. Ancient names. Into the grey, into the winds of the north. Summoning the sea. The vaulted beams of a church are hidden in
the sky. Like the upturned prow of a
ship. Above, or beneath. In this dream I imagine angels listening to
the wells of the deep.
The solace of bluest eye or buried
dress. A life lived beyond torment. What might we endure, I ask myself, if we
could spare our beloved ones? A
wife? A daughter? All manner of wraith and broken dreaming
might we endure. I once thought the
grandest thing imaginable was to save another. To carry their burdens, to shield and protect
them – even secretly, and at such agonising distance. But perhaps I was wrong. Or almost wrong. You see, love is so fearless. And wild. It seeks, ventures, connects.
It humbles.
And conquers.
Fire on the water. Eternity upon the ice. Dreams of raven pale, or alabaster black. Wells of the deep, where even angels are
taught of what it means to be saved. The
dream goes, and the dream comes again. As
one. Above and beneath. Together and alone. I know this now, beloved. I am unafraid, here at eternity's edge. I saw the truth at last. I saw you on the cliffs one shadowed, ethereal
morning. A midnight of the eternal day. A locket in your fist, held tight against your
chest. Like a perfect darkened mirror, wearing my
poems and my sorrow. Strange words upon
determined lips, almost silent. Over and
over again. You were softly singing my
names, I think. Into the dreaming grey,
into the winds of the north. Summoning
the sea.
The
delicate hands of a lover. To be
searched, taken and known. Firmly,
passionately, gently. Rapture and
cascade, of flesh like an instrument. The
music of clasp and bloom. Wild one, I
have been those hands. Forever. And here. From song to star to soil. Dreaming, knowing, yet never as it was. We are the legacy now, and more. Petal, garden and wing. I have loved you in the open and the hidden,
for what else am I if not yours? Shining
mirror, devoted. The gate is your
blooming, sweetheart. Entirely. Your skin is with my skin, if you allow, and I
am lost no longer. I weep gladly in
secret grey. More than this, or that. As I speak or write your hands. Your kiss upon my wounded, that brought me
back to grace. And life. This budding spring, and scent. This brief tremble of mortality. Blow o wind, to the crescent of her dreaming. Repose, healing, by the light of the poet's
moon. Bless her path, of branch and sea.
The blossom, the cherry, the tree.
I've been told I shimmer
in the distance and the haze, as though I'm never really there. An imagining, a trick of the light. Maybe that's true. Maybe I never was, and never will be. But Kasi never claimed to be anything more
than a poet. A romantic. Trying desperately to not let grief destroy
him, as with so many when Kara fell. Refugees,
shattered families, lost little ones. Sometimes
I still hear the lamentations of those souls divided now by fiction and false
chronology. Some were scattered to the
edges of the realm. Others went seeking
asylum, mortality, and were blessed to find new families to love.
But some didn't.
Some still dimly recall their lost ones as
they wander the borderlands, in dreaming or flesh. Unable to heal. Unable to leave the threshold places for fear
of missing a sign. I used to hear them
every single night. Wailing. Crying out to the vanished. Petitioning heaven for their return. I used to be one of them, until I was granted
a miracle. Even now I thank my Father
for such kindness. For such grace. But those hidden holocausts that darkened the
shining realm – they were the work of wraiths and thieves, not angels. Not true bright ones. It was monsters who butchered the guardians of
Ishka’s Path. Inversions and cautions of
the glass, as the ayahs taught the young. I still recall. The purest halls and trees of Eth’iri. Beside the river of the thousand stars, where
all were safe from harm. A cathedral of
thorns beneath the seas. A chapel of melodies
beyond the skies. There was one among
those elder poets of the chapel who mattered most to me. To so many of us.
I still remember her.
Those teacher's wings. Those writer's hands.
My love, thank you for meeting me halfway. But hell has found the Earth, as those
wraith-cults found their way into the columns and altars of the First
Temple. Tell me, how do I continue to
honour you in the midst of all this travesty?
How do I continue in mortal flesh whilst trying to fight an endless
spiritual war? The sheer ugliness of
these brutal truths is only made palatable through the rhythm and cadence of
words. Sometimes I feel like an almost-broken
warrior, still trying so desperately to defend my own heart. Except my heart no longer belongs to me. Princess, hear me. You were my entire world once upon a time. Truly you were. I would have torn apart creation itself to
protect you. And I did, with guiltless
fury. Times and laws have changed, but
you are still my world. I was there in
that tower with you, beloved. Watching
over as you gathered a hidden chorus. Be
free now. Let me carry your suffering
instead, amah. I pay it gladly, for you
are made, raised and cherished by others now. Their love is true as mine. It sets a glow within my soul to know this, my
darling. I would never wish to
overshadow or dishonour such beauty. Parents,
sisters and salutations.
It makes me smile to know a measure of your
freedoms. Those you are willing to share
so openly with me. But I allow myself to
experience and hold only a few key moments of your memory. Some things are for you alone. I am your guardian, cherished one, and your
privacy is of the utmost to me. Secrets
can be wondrous, nourishing things. The
stuff of grace and inner life. I have my
own secrets too. I am alone now in this
chapel of melodies. In the calming dark,
and the peaceful quiet. Love shall
conquer all. I know it. Sometimes I still have these incredible visions
of you.
But how does an emissary live this inner life
at such distance, separated from such a huge part of themselves, as I must with
you? By making that distance sacred, I
think. By keeping away without truly
leaving you behind. By giving without
demanding – and by carrying another heart within my own. Your heart. Everything I am is this. I hope you never forget. It's the brightest, deepest and most
meaningful part of me. I’m forever
chained and devoted to you, Esme. Dying
is easy, isn’t it? Resurrection is hard.
So look again, angel. At the function and the form. Even the sadness is sweeter than it seems. I'm a dancer, because I was taught by the
best. And true love is worth living for –
even as a trick of the light.
