Sometimes I savour the sadness of broken things. The unameable, irreplaceable loss that comes with time. With vantage, or vision. It's tempting to enjoy such melancholy when all one has is time. Especially through the eyes of a poet. Or an angel. The fields of my mind and my heart still bear the seed of my creativity as I attempt to bring such visions to term. But this birthing process is almost never easy. And what exactly is this nostalgia I’m craving? Is it the longing for a genuine return – Ennoia; the secret flame, here again – or am I just savouring the loss once more? Have I made a fetish and fetch of her absence? Perhaps I’m simply spinning these wheels like the ever-circling hands of the clock. Perhaps, in my baffled kingship, I've told one too many stories. Maybe not truly, but in those ways of the spirit and the heart. It really hurts to love someone, my friends. I don’t think you need Kasi to tell you that. But it hurts almost as much to tell a good story. Angelic light, demon poetry – and everything in between. Throughout the ages many have made monsters from the tellers of tales. I can understand why. It's a frightening thing to come face to face with meaning. With context, knowledge and growth. It's unearthly, isn’t it? Intoxicating. Sublime. Truly, it’s a strange place that storytellers occupy. Halfway between healer and sorcerer, cartographer and mythographer. Because those broken things are more comely in the astral light of a well-told tale. Justice is a mercurial thing. A certain restitution can be found in the human tongue, with or without its poetry. But a storied annunciation can rent the veils like nothing else. It can level cities and raise the dead. But more than this, storytelling is the only prism in which mankind can truly see itself. The better angel of its nature. In the end stories are the only place where Man can believe, even if only for a moment, that he is not a monster. Not a vampire. Self-reflection is an incredibly powerful thing, believe me. Through it the heart is strengthened, softened, and remade in gold. This place of hope and knowledge beyond even melancholy – it is the shapeliest, most comely of dreams. But more than this, within such divine fire lies the animating principle. The fulcrum of all existence and perception. This is the ingenuity of God laid bare. To love, and be loved. Cherish it well because life itself is the sacred bloom of such genius; a radiant multidimensional flower of innermost light.
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