I often think about the
countless paths and choices that are faced by the people I love, both near and
far. The twists and turns, the nuances
and hidden groves. The pain, the joy. One can never entirely plan a journey, after
all. Life, unexpected, is always
occurring. Overturning our neatly
ordered plans. Sometimes I imagine a
young hand turning pages of a great book. A tome of myth and secret skies. A compendium of magic and hope and fairy-tales. But even the gift of foresight is no guarantee
that things will run smoothly. Sometimes I
remember the future, but even the gifted can remember it wrong. However, there are secrets hidden on every
page of the Book of Life. Even in our
mistakes.
I know it to be true.
I've seen some incredible things on my
journey. Sometimes my life feels
agonizingly long, but no less beautiful for its endurance. Eventually the young hand turning those pages
in the book of life begins to age. They
doubt the tall tales that once held them spellbound and delighted with the
magnificent possibilities of an enchanted world. Sometimes the song of those pages begins to
darken. The melody is mingled with fear
and the brutal experiences of this fallen realm. I've seen angels plummet through midnight skies,
striking the earth like gutted stars. And yet the reader of these pages still
wants so desperately to believe in kind, gentle magic. Oh, sweet ones. The magic is real. Kasi promises you that. There are very dark forces at work here. Wraith-cults and deviant sorcerers. That much is true. But the eternal light is also present here. This truly is an enchanted world. I've experienced things that should be impossible,
but they happened nonetheless. Bottled messages
of love lost at sea for a thousand years, before finally alighting on the
shores of the intended. Kisses folded in
rose-petals, somehow crossing the chasms between worlds. As a smile, an inspiration, a hidden muse. I've even watched as lost souls attempt to
find their way home again, bravely facing their sins and their guilt. Truly willing to earn a place in the eternal radiance
once more. I've witnessed
transformations and resurrections.
Miracles, by any name.
There is a mortal adage of which many
emissaries of the threshold are fond, myself included. Wherever you go, there you are. It might seem trite at first but there's
great wisdom in it, I believe. Of course,
the magic of new places, sights and sounds is never to be underestimated. The
influx of new energies, new people and new experiences. These things are the materials of our most formative
moments. Often the simplest way to learn
is to just experience something new, and to recognise value in a different
context. But, despite all these
incredible wonders that await every traveller, we are still always ourselves. We carry our faith with us, and our scars. And our love. Memories, symbols and trinkets of home. Those things that remind us of a nurturing
relationship, a comforting shoulder, an unexpected tenderness.
Then, in later life, if faith is kept and
kindness treasured, the old hand turning those pages becomes a page turned by a
younger hand. This is not simply death,
or succession. This is so much more than
mistaking skin for parchment. This is the
mystery of incantare; the magic and hope dreamt of by every reader's heart. Breathing life into All Signs, through
connection. Creation and dreaming are
not passive things, after all. The legend
of a quickening spirit is the truth of a spirit quickened. Indeed, we are made in the likeness of our
Father. Fashioned in the image of
eternity. We can honour because we were
honoured. Through the book, the hand,
and the song.
I miss the old world. The real world, full of song and shining
vision. Everybody who still remembers
this place before the Fall is at least occasionally overtaken with a certain
nostalgia. A melancholic reverie. Yearning for what was lost. But those losses are all the more devastating
when they are actually half-remembered thefts. Storm and torment that made a ruin of our true
home. Fallen fractals. Malignant chronologies. This world of abuse, of slavers and slaves –
it is not the true world. It’s the
sickening spill of wraith-ravage. Sinister
technologies carving and scarring their way through the flesh of human hours. Oh, sweet one, do you doubt it?
There was a time before time, once upon.
Though it pains me to admit, I'm just one
among many in these endless fields of the dead. A drowning, and a crossing. The river and the tree. There are a million souls at my back, and
more. Phantoms of an angel. Thieves of a king. An army of furious lights all desperate to
steal back their sovereignty from the demonic hordes that darkened the
Earth. Look at the stars, I tell these
lights. Look how they shine. Distance is a liar, I proclaim. Though I'm not certain if enough of them would
dare to believe me. But some of them do.
Both mortals and angels make fictions of
the spaces in between. These dreams of
the interim. This devastating lore told
among the folk and the fay. My wise one,
I still search those lights in the night sky. Searching for you, and others
like you. A map of the stars in the skin
of a seraph. Whether bleached for
passing or not. To be recognised, even
for a moment; it is a heady, powerful thing indeed. We all crave spiritual recognition, don't we?
I thought I could kindle that kind of hope
in others. As you so generously did for
me, princess. I thought I could steal
back that shining name for myself. An
older name. And I did, in a way. In a church beneath the sea. But perhaps my reach somewhat exceeds my
grasp. After all, I'm trying to make
stars of still-healing flesh. Forgive
me, wise one. Forgive my foolish youth. Thinking I could banish violence from the
realm with little more than a wing, and a prayer. I was so desperate for my friends to think
fondly of me, and each other. I wanted
to speak intimately in several tongues at once. I thought I could share my sweetness almost
equally with the people who truly touched my heart. But maybe I can't. Maybe it's a fool's errand, in the end. It doesn't mean I'm done trying though. I'll never be done trying for the old world. The real world. Even though I died a long, long time ago it's
almost like I never really existed at all. Except in dreams, I suppose. You can never fully erase something from a
dream.
Sometimes the prospect of
facing an uncertain future is akin to standing at a high place, peering down
into a dark, unfathomable abyss. Most of
us have experienced frightening moments or days like these. I wouldn’t wish them on anyone. It can be a struggle to share these things with our loved ones. When
life has felt almost unbearably difficult and our sense of isolation seems
beyond repair. In those moments and days
of disconnect we sometimes feel just too damaged. Beyond the reach of friends, family or
passing strangers. An interior life too intimate
or complex to share. We feel the
crushing weight of it all, yet we don’t want to burden those we cherish most.
I know exactly how lonely that can feel.
But I have to believe that some form of
healing is always an option, even if available only at a distance. Perhaps something as simple as the memory of a
past kindness. A comforting word or
gesture. The way someone once held you,
or made you laugh. A kiss that meant so
much more than words ever could. Hold on
to those shining points of light, like lanterns in the lost. They can be so
guiding, and truly sacred. A source of real
strength. Often the literal difference
between ruin and recovery. I speak from
experience. Never let anyone convince
you that kindness isn't incredibly powerful. Art, mythology and music have always been
those paths of recovery for me. Healing
balms that have brought me closer to God.
I’ve heard it said that our character is our fate. How we tend the weak and wounded, or don’t. How we uplift our peers and protect our loved
ones, or not. Yes, Kasi believes in
fate. Of a kind.
Mira'na, Val'kiir, Yash'aya.
The way we sometimes circle round to meet
ourselves again. Like angels, or wolves.
Oh, Kara. I cannot thank you enough. You'll never know how deeply I treasure your
melodies, and your magic. I hope you recognise
the depth of these days and the reaches of your own soul. There are folk, wise as the hills, who call
such depth the lore of the land. I pray it
stirs your intuition and your heart. I
want you to know that I'll never betray your respect, Kara. Or your affections. You have so many wonders ahead of you now. Honing your craft. Distilling perfect worship. Reflection and celebration; making music with
the instrument of our Father's truth. Whatever
it takes for each of us. Circling back
like a wolf, or an angel. Because with
love nothing is impossible. Do you see?
Dark things often pose as
keepers in the halls of Light. Cruel,
sinister things of the shadow places, pretending kindness in the pursuit of
ultimate power and control. Vampires,
demons, hurricanes of shattered glass. They
come crawling from the lack of light, from the abyss, changing forms and hiding
intentions. Disguising themselves in the
official garments and teachings of holy men. I cannot overstate just how nightmarish these
wraiths and their self-appointed priests can be. They are creatures of mimicry, inversion and
distortion. They delight in violence and
trickery.The engineering of unseen
cages for human potential. And in
doing so they claim that we poets, seekers and guardians are the true dark
ones.The ones to be hated and
feared.We who have been forced to live in
squalor, in shadow and poverty through the machinations of these same deceptive
wraith-cults.A hideous mockery of
everything the shining realm once stood for.
This is the War of Imagination, my beloved
ones. A war of mirrors and stars. The spiritual battle that your scriptures and
romances half-remember. When Ishkara
fell and Eth'iri was scorched to black. The
worst day of all of our lives, whether we recall it or not. The day they stole our lanterns and our
birth-rights. Sickening false gods lurching
forth from the abyss. The coronation of
the Altered Sun. So many of us were
broken that day, during that terrifying holocaust.I still remember how they made ashes of her
name, and almost made a monster of an angel.
Made a slave of a king.
Bleeding rivers. Mud turned to glass. Starving and half-crazed at the edge of
everything. Locusts and wild honey. Praying fervently for a Second Revelation. Another chance at hope. A baptism of holy fire.An ascension of human knowledge, not the
blaze of black rain that stole away our light. These things seem like dreams now and nothing
more. Mere nightmares in a nightmare-world.
This dim, grey nothing where the
wraith-cults pretend the throne of the Most High. Wickedness in the highest places. Believe it or not, Kasi has walked this Earth
for a thousand years.I have been called
many things by these murderous imposters.Heretic, blasphemer, revolutionary.But deeds speak louder than words or deceptions.I still serve the higher realms. Even if I’m forced to walk in shadow. Secrets like a raven's dale, or a nesting
dove. I try to suffuse all my workings
with a palpable heart-light that speaks beyond words, in the language of love.Music of the spheres. Kisses aglow like fireflies in a night sky. The gentle kinship and chivalry between friends.
Or the furious, unstoppable determination
to stand for what is right, no matter the cost.Make no mistake.My heart is still
guiding me inwards toward knowledge.And
upwards, toward the radiant house of my Father.
Sometimes, Kara, I remember
the future. I catch glimpses hidden in
stories and legend. My future, and
yours. A magical night of fireflies. Your joy as you watched them rising all around
you like the gate of a thousand stars. Your
eyes, so wide. Full of wonder. I recall my gladness at being able to share
that night with you, upon glimmering waters. Reflections like a kiss between Heaven and Earth.
As though we had made secret wings of
our dreams that night, and made truth of your birth-right.
I still remember, Kara. I've remembered that nocturne since I first
heard your voice again. And I knew. So I
searched the stories until memory was met.
I recall key moments of your song from those times of dreaming
light. The realm of radiance that was
our home before the challenge of this mortal flesh. You're a little worldlier now, Kara. But I recognized you instantly. The same bright eyes and beguiling smile. The open, shining heart. Those melodies and harmonies. Still the same beautiful girl you always were,
before you so bravely chose the Earth again.
There's far more to your story than you
think. There’s always more to stories. Those legends and fairytales you loved so
well when you were younger; they speak of half-forgotten truths. Not merely fable and fancy. In the ancient days there were shining voices
among the visions of mortality. Angels
of the flesh, walking the forests and the fields. Ministering to mankind. Living among them, not above them. Keepers and oracles of the tapestries,
treasured by all who heard them sing. Do
you realize that you were among them, Kara? Oh, my love. It's a difficult task, trying to explain the
inexplicable. Attempting to convey
something so much older than this sickening false chronology.
Princess, I want you to remember the future
if you can. I want you to never truly
forget the past. Please keep it alive in
your heart, through those beloved lullabies and fairytales. I don't want you lost again in this vicious lie
of so-called reality. You are so much
more than a girl with a beautiful voice and a shining heart. You were a true jewel among the crowning
glories of the homelands.
Teacher, student, visionary.
And more.
The courts of Eth'iri knew well of your
playful humility. This is the truth,
this letter of love, written by someone who never forgot you. Because love doesn't die with goodbyes, or
distance. Not if it’s real. Kasi adores your kindness, and your courage. Princess, I still remember those golden
evenings in the gardens. Y'asha would
braid stars in your hair. The two of you
traded books with one another, quietly discussing art-history, melody and
cartography. I recall the river
guardians planting summer flowers at the water's edge in honour of you. An emissary who always put the work before
herself. In favour of worship,
celebration and dancing. The wishes of
your Mother. The works of your
Father. A birth-right truer than you
know. There is a holy flame at the very
centre of you. Sometimes you doubt it
when you're sad, or lost. But it's there,
Kara. Rain like drops of fallen sunlight
in the darkness, waiting for the perfect night and song to rise again.
