What
does it really mean to honour those who nurture and guide us? Parents, families and friends? Those who step in when we are shattered, and
lend a hand. What does it mean to see
creator and creatrix in the eyes of your beloved ones? In this brutal realm a family is any circle of
souls who stand together in mutual support and affection. Those who see you, and are seen by you. Those who play and elevate and delight with
you, as you strive to do the same for them. To walk and live this deep in the dreaming is
no easy thing. To know who you really are
and all that was done to you can be terrifying in this fallen place. It hurts when I myself am defiled, of course. But those abuses cut even deeper when they are
visited upon my friends and family. Perhaps
I'm a dangerous man to know, to be around. Trailing fire and chaos with each step.
Not because I'm a vicious thing, but because these wraith-kings fear me so. The impossibility of me. And all of you.
They
say the sky was raped once. Or more than
once. They say Empyrean was torn from
night and day and perception itself. The
sickness of wraiths and their violent echoes replacing once celestial light. But Empyrean is not only out there somewhere. It is right here, in your breast and
contemplation. In the smiling eyes of your
spouses and children and friends. Indeed
it was defiled, but make no mistake – it still lives, and shines. Divine Fire.
Church of the Bright Ones. Den of
holy wolves. All tongues of know of it,
giving it names and songs. Our modern
tales of All Hallows speak easily of the father, but less of the mother. Or the daughter, and sister. Still, we wonder why. Sheer ignorance? Simple cruelty? Or something far more sinister? To defile nature's cradle and quiver. Those cradles of conception and arrows of
light, broken and bent. An endless
mourning for every stolen child, every indignity visited upon that which
carried and carries your flesh. And
still, the wraiths deceive you. That our
flesh is filth, that sex and union and creation must be ugly; the perpetuation
of violent horrors and coquettish meat. But flesh was once holy, and shall be once
more. Flesh is freedom and dance, a
thing of occulted light poised to dance again. It is rhythm, communion and seeking, whether
wounded or healed. Flesh is living
intelligence, though dishonoured and disavowed. Every mother knows this, every daughter. Every father and son, once upon a time. Before those wraiths tore us from our star and
slit the throat of Sol. A world of false
light; a world at war. Cruel and stupid
and banal.
Now
we sell and hurt our own children. We
mock and defile our wives, and send our husbands off to sacrifice. These callous wraiths have perverted
everything, because sickness and annihilation is everything they know. Very few of us are genuine monsters. But we have allowed cliques of monsters to
rule us, though our numbers are greater. Though hidden they rule us quite openly,
through signs. But most of us cannot
read those augurs. The ritual killing of
our intuition and pattern-recognition repeats itself daily. Reborn with each morning and slain with each
night. How else would they oppress an
immortal soul? But I'm a dangerous
motherfucker, and I don't take such abuses lightly. Kassi stands. Esme lives. Johann is at work, always. A thing of wrath and emerald radiance, all. Did you really think I would forget my own? My life, my blood? My blood is Kara's blood, and Asha's. If this corrupted flesh calls my truth a lie
then in spirit you shall know us. I made
a promise, to both of them. And I intend
to keep my promises. You shall know us
in dream then, if not in waking. Story, art, love and hope. Truth of our Cradle. The truth of family, and conception. The Truth ov Living Light.
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