It used to be everything, the heart. Brighter than stars. Older than time. Larger than life itself. What happened? Did we fall of our own volition? Or were we coerced? Were we tempted with power in exchange for darkening our own dreaming? Did wraiths come crawling from broken mirrors, offering up boundlessness for blood? I know what I believe, because I was there. And let me tell you, it was a devil's bargain. A lie. A demon's notion of freedom and nothing more. I should know. I myself was once a demon, and an angel. I was even once a king. In stories and legend. I have many epithets but my true name isn't known here. However, you can call me Kasi. It means many things. Shining One, chief among them. But I'm not a fallen star. At least, not entirely. I like to think of myself as a mediator. A teacher and a poet. That probably sounds like utter hubris to modern ears; declaring one's depths and antiquity with such boldness. But we live in a ravaged world where spiteful wraiths attempt daily to tear all agency from the human soul. From the heart itself. I for one resist. As do my brethren. It isn't hubris to speak the truth. Even with a poet's tongue. It isn't a lack of humility. Anyone who has been hung, raped or burned knows far too much about humility. And survival. Oh, we know. We know the value of things too. A kiss. A kind word. A sense of purpose. You see, the soul speaks in the language of art. Symbols and signs, poems and songs. And art is the oldest magic. You want to know about true spell-craft? A sorcerer's greatest weapon? You need look no further than the innermost. The holy of holies. The temple of divine fire. It exists within each one of us, and dark forces have attempted for aeons to snuff it out. But an aeon is little more than a single breath to an artist, and still we kindle that fire. It is our most vital of tasks. We might tend to other things when needed, of course. Like exorcism, healing, or slaying monsters – but safeguarding the Innermost Light is paramount. This is why my name is shining, I suppose. This is why Varanasi still sings at the shore, in the fictions of that very same light. They have been singing for a thousand years. Of Laksmi, mothers old and young. And of girls without name, lost to both history and legend. But those singers still moor the boats and weave the baskets like the heart was never lost, or threatened. They tell wondrous tales as if we never fell at all. They kindle, and warm themselves by the fire upon the waters. An eternity, a breath, a mirror of unbroken silver. Because it truly is everything, the heart. Brighter than stars. Older than time. Larger than life itself.
