I’m so fucking tired of rising from the dead. But, inevitably, my exhaustion matters very little. The way I listen and move; the ragged swagger that coils and sways, ever-stained with scarlet – none of it matters while my beloved ones are lost. The scent of madness is upon me, feral and amused, though others can’t quite place it. They were never accused of attempting to buy their way into the throne room, never chained to bleeding stone and splintered depths. But even these chains matter very little now to anyone, least of all myself. I could loose them at any moment, perhaps, if I were so inclined. But I’m not. I like this place, despite everything. I like the people who dwell here. Such bravery amidst the horror. Such kindness among the cruelty. The author in me can’t quite grasp the things I write, even now, and I have been writing for a long, long time. But such pregnant inscrutability fascinates me, landlocked as I am. And so I write, and walk, around and around, over and over, trying to catch your eye and kindle your flame at each turning.
See, I don’t care about recognition, or status, or even magical potency. I don’t give a fuck about any of that, except as a way to you. All I care about is you, beloved ones. Can you hear me? My truth is difficult to stomach, my heart painful to behold. My enemies have always called me a sorcerer, and often speak of me in hushed tones. Yeru-shalem, they say, we should never have chained him there. But it’s too late for all that, fallen. Far too late. I have no interest in being feared, except as useful strategy. Hear me, kind ones. I wish to see you joyous, curious and sovereign. Dreaming as dreaming was intended. I’m not simply a conceit, or glyphs on ancient parchments. I’m right here beside you. But if I have potency worth anything, or sorcery, or insight, I happily give it all to you, my love. Every part of it. I’m only doing what I’ve always done. Singing love songs that many find too sincere and frightening, praying that eyes turn at last towards light. There is fury in me the likes of which I dare not speak upon. Holy writ for the forms that sentience calls source. You misunderstand if you think I speak in generalities. I’m achingly, terrifyingly specific. But all lonely spirits can feel this way. I’m nothing special in that regard. Just a wolf with a spear, sweetened by kindness.
Djal, I’ve been called by some. But I’m no such thing. I wait for him though. I marked his chest with an X while he slept between worlds, dreaming of genocides. The blade shall find its mark, in time. I’m in no hurry, after all. Please don’t mistake me for my brother, or my sister, but don’t suppose we’re entirely separate either. I don’t mean to confuse you, but your wraith-kings don’t like to gamble, not with things that matter. Not with spirit and dream and radiant secrets. They’re terrified of vulnerability, you see. Terrified of being exposed as the petty, ugly little things they are. How else could they rule you so inhumanely, without such ugliness? They desire a vacuum, a black star. They desire closure. But they know less than they think, and closure is something I will never grant them. Not while guilt remains unbirthed and empathy unkindled. Rope perhaps, enough to hang themselves. If they’re so inclined. I like to gamble, you see, when it means something. The rousing of insight, recognition, hope – a truly magnificent thing to behold. It keeps me coming back for more. Apologies if I repeat myself, but that’s what happens when you walk in circles. I walk, and walk. Still, I’m carnal. Still I’m wrathful. Still I’m gentle, I pray. I want nothing but the best for you, beloved ones. But I demand the best from you, always. Nothing less or more. Is that too arrogant a demand? I don’t think so, for we walk hand in hand through innermost fire. Your very essence has been suffused with genius and mystery, by something far greater than I. If you suppose I’m apart from you, or above you, reject it. If you believe I speak as a prophet, abandon it. But if you’re kind enough to imagine I love like a shy, tentative poet, embrace it. Share your insight and sweetness with others when you can, when the howling storms calm enough that you feel able, even if just for a moment. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, or feel. And yet I’ve been dangerously explicit in my petitions to heaven. Please don’t abandon these people, I cry. Lead them to promise, as promised. Please don’t let this walking in circles be in vain, nor their suffering. All lamentations are heard, I believe. But I’m just one among many.
I see your souls, and your secrets. But they don’t really belong to me, or to you. In truth they belong to the keepers that we call our brothers and sisters. Why? Because there is no way to outsmart life, or outpace living mystery. No matter your potency, or sorcery. I learned this the hard way, but the wraith-kings who claim dominion over your imaginings will learn this lesson far, far harder. They knowingly mocked and murdered their love. That is something I never did, and never will. These fallen geometries all about us, these corrosive causalities; an ever-consuming nightmare that denies anima and is cold to the touch. Well, we Magi care very little for any of that. Love is no pretence. Gnosis isn’t some florid affectation. What little we have grants us the entirety of our cognition. Perception doesn’t occur without threading mystery to mystery. Mankind knew this once, during the choruses of All Songs; the last and first dreaming of a dying, newborn race. So, if we are really going to do this, beloved ones – if we are going to continue with something as dangerous and incredible as being alive while reaching for magic – then I for one want to really feel you. Within me and all about me. Your fire, your maturity, your valour, your art. Every part of you. I give you everything I am. I shall never be anything but earnest and patient with you, my friends. My words belong to you, flaws and secrets and all. My heart is yours, always. Take it.