Many
have called me a liar or a thief in the midst of life's endless dreaming, but
few have ever said it to my face. It's true that I can move about unseen when
needed. Also, in dreams faces can change and shapes can shift. It can be
difficult to keep track of who's who. But perhaps the real reason I've been
called a trickster so often is simply this: few of us comprehend the limitless
generative power contained within. Those
elements that grant us our cognition are hinged upon the fulcrum of eternity. We are, all of us, made in the image of God. But the power inherent in such an image is a
terrifying thing to grasp. Not many have
the tenacity to confront the truth of something like this. Something we still don't
really understand. The depths of our own
being. I have spoken these words before, long ago. Back then I was called a teacher,
a wise one. Then a heretic. A blasphemer. And finally, a dangerous threat to
the established order. I never once claimed that Man was God, or equal to God.
Such later interpretations are both imprecise and woefully unimaginative. I
only spoke the truth. That each of us contains a divine flame, a fragment of
eternity that is the signature of our Father’s design. It is from this fire
that all song and science spills. Perhaps I do have the ink and imagination of
a dreamer, but there is really no reason to be afraid of me. I’m no saint nor
demigod, and never claimed to be, but I want the very best for all cultures.
Men, women and children of varying custom. Every family, tribe or religion has
its cherished stories. Like sojourners gathered around the fire. As a storyteller myself I find them all fascinating.
But I have seen men kill for their stories.
I have witnessed wars waged over a single book of songs. It still happens today. Isn’t that unsettling? People are so
deserving of peace, regardless of who they are or the songs they hold dear.
Other men are not beasts simply because their scriptures and their angels
differ from yours. Have you lost your mind, Fallen? There is darkness in every
culture, and light also. Both is found in every human heart. To varying
degrees, of course. A man must be judged on his merit. His honour, intent and
action. Not his differences of belief. That way lies madness, and endless
bloodshed. Look around you at the radicals and extremists of every kind, many
of them funded and sanctioned by the State. They all believe they are righteous,
and they all ignore the ugliest aspects of their own actions. Petty grievances are
quickly whipped into a frenzy. Tribal disagreements become cruelty, then bloodshed,
then genocide. This is nothing new. It can take frighteningly little time for a
man to lose his wings and his soul. Do
you know true history, both hidden and overt? The sickening transgressions committed
by the men and women of your own faith? I do. Religious violence of every kind
is ancient, and far too common. It is predicated upon the dehumanisation and
othering of those from different cultures.
Those with different stories, or different skin. Even a single faith can
fracture into numerous denominations, all of them claiming exclusive rights on
the supposed truth. But it has always been my belief that human beings of every
religion deserve to live unmolested. It is insanity that such a statement was
considered incendiary back then and still is to so many. How dare you
reduce divinity to mere division? To childish favouritism, politics and war? But
I suppose men are always hesitant to defy empires and emperors, aren’t they?
Especially when they are led to believe such figures are genuine representatives
of the divine. I was never under any such illusions. Never afraid of being
somewhat provocative. Still, I chose my words and my moments very carefully. A
wise man can do nothing less if he wishes to succeed. Context is everything,
and an orator must know his audience. My words were still twisted though,
despite the precision with which I spoke.
Letters rewritten. Rhetoric that I never once uttered was later placed
into my mouth. A man first lives as
flesh. If his work is resonant enough, he becomes legend, then literature. He becomes a useful avatar for all kinds of
opposing ideologies. Little has changed
in that regard. But I'm still fighting for the same thing I always was, many
lives and many years later. A world free of the machinations of these venomous
occultists. The dark designs of the wraiths, slave-masters and traffickers who
rule this realm. Who wouldn't dream a little in the depths of such darkness?
Yet I've been deemed far worse than a fantasist over the years. Agitator, revolutionary,
dark angel. Perhaps I’m guilty on all charges.
Nothing more than a sinister oracle. Tell me, Fallen, is that what's
become of the sun at midnight? Is that who I am now? A demon-prince in your
inverted cosmology? Another paltry antichrist in your quest for colonisation? I
admit that I'm a magician of sorts. Wounded, and fond of phantasmagoria. But I
would like to believe that I also possess a level of genuine rigor. A code of
conduct. A true warrior's heart. Because I really do care about the innocent.
The lost, lonely and broken whom you trample so mercilessly. It's why I'm still
doing this. Why I'm still a thing of vision despite the wild tempest such
pursuits have wrought. Poetry is painful. I know this better than most. It can
make a wreck of man’s imagination if done well. Even if done very carefully. As
the Ragged Magi once pondered, "Are we not creatures of clay, forged of
star and sea?" Indeed, we are. Formed from the radiant imagination of the
Living God. Myriad and mysterious. Older than temple, politic or parable.
Larger than any text or testament. Perhaps this still sounds like wildest
heresy even to modern ears. But that matters little to a Syrian. An angel of
Antioch. As I said, I've been called so many things in this dreaming of a
thousand years. Fantasist and heretic are by far the mildest of those slurs. We
are all wedded to our dreaming. Even in this deceptive, aberrant chronology.
Thus, we cannot cleave ourselves from our own perceptions. We can only refine
them through context. Imagination, experience and wisdom. So, let it be known
that I am nothing special. I’m just like
you. Not a liar or a trickster. Neither
demigod nor saint. Merely an artist trying to inspire others to the better
angels of their nature. Trying to understand
the world in which he lives through the tools he knows best. Dreams, stories and song. Hoping to kindle that divine fire I spoke of.
That wisdom of the heart.
