This blog and its contents are inspired by and owe a massive debt to the author Christopher Knowles, who’s exemplary work on secretsun.blogspot.com has pushed me further than I thought possible. The following posts will all resonate or owe a debt to this author’s work in one way or another.
Mortals tend to
laugh – or recoil with incipient horror at faint intuition – when angels speak
of building empires in lost legends. Trinovantum?
Oh Fallen, what a dark sense of humour
you have. But mine is far darker. Mark it, as I have marked you since before
this broken beginning. Sky and Earth
living as one, before your abomination technologies splintered all movement in
concert. You brought forth an uglier 'music', not my memory of heaven. Atonal discords shrieking in the rift, seething
like unholy insects at the breach. Because
a star crossed your skies? Because
emerald mountains circle the spot where Kasai fell? As winter came, dead lands writhing from the
wound...and you were afraid? Slay the
dreamers. It has always been your first
response. And yet you peer at what
little you know of your own dreams and attempt to demarcate myth from history. Oh, wicked ones, what ludicrous things you
are. But why that little isle, you
ask even now? The arrogance of genocidal
revisionists is breathtaking. You claim
to know of stars, their lore and cults. Yet you are bloated and snide – or emaciated
and ever-hungry – imbibing the perversions of your fathers. You dare to claim
Roma's name, but you don't even know what words are, or what they mean. You know next to nothing of your own history,
let alone mine. Again, a ludicrous thing
is my enemy. Why that isle? Why there
and not another? Because while you were cleaving humankind from its true covenant
and birthright we Magi were building bridges, guarding gates to All Songs.
You claim to know this word, ye mighty.
And its power. But do you? You fear the river of temesh, that tides can
be turned, that spiders can move backwards through secrets. Always the fear of the colonizer, but hope
eternal for the colonized. Because the
degraded and humiliated know of things beyond your wildest imaginings. We attend them. We attend our living and our dead. We love them. They are not chattel to us, or usury. Nor mere threads in a stratagem. Temesh. Place of the Twin, at the dreaming of the Isle
of Albion. Shalem-Yeru.
I ask you, desecrators and evil ones. I ask you for the thousandth time, what do
you suppose a temple be? Moreover, what be a temple of light? You know something of the angel-king buried on
the hill, don't you? The one who comes
and goes and comes again, always? At the
great barrow on the hill, at the fabled City of Gates. Where Xashi kissed the Earth in dreaming,
before dream was even given to Man. Nonsense,
shriek the fearful. But you know the
Hill of Ashes, fallen ones. You know it
well. It’s what your deepest fear will taste like, when you are finally haunted enough to recall it with any clarity. Light still
has you, and always will. Love shall
never be slain by hate. You would know this, were you a kind thing. We carry the star, always. Your enemy; Magi moving among you, beyond
even your occulted knowledge of space and time. You know us, and fear us. As you should. But still you continue with your abomination
technologies. Corrupted chronologies. Scar magic, rape magic. Blended with
silica and circuitry now. Such ugly,
demented little things. I still weep at
your endless cruelty. Nothing hurts more
than betrayal from a former cherished one.
And so you fear the fabled angel-king buried
on the holy hill. Yeru-shalem, you say.
We should never have bound him there. But
there is here, blind ones, and here is there.
The bound are bound only in imagining. And the dead are not even dead. You know this well as I, surely? Alas, perhaps I grant my enemy too much
nuance? Perhaps I indulge too far in my
imagined romance of you? The occulted
whisper stories to one another, dangerous stories, of how Rome was built in a
day. In a single day. But our place – the Place of the Crossing – it
was raised over aeons. Lit by stars that
have long since returned to their hidden kin. We Magi can play games with any language, any
place, any sign or portent. We speak a
thousand tongues and more. All stories,
all songs. Newborn past, ancient futures.
Ah, lost ones, too blunt and too coarse and
too unrefined by far. All this wealth
and still you can barely imagine. All these
lies of officialdom passing as truth and still you can barely read, or spell. Scar magic and knife magic means nothing to
me, desolate ones. Silica or not. For I am scars, and knives. Chains mean little to a thing that can move as
Magi move. All your stolen treasures,
and still you fear the viceroy. But there
is a greater light than I, still to come. All your wraiths, all your dark sleep-lore, and
still you think that kings can truly die?
Temesh, ye fallen. The angel
dreams and is not dead. He is in both
places. In the gate on the hill where the temple stands, the Angel
of All Songs. Kashai Eli, Omkara. The kiss lies in wait, still breathing beneath
the stone for the liberation of all lost and dreaming peoples. Let me repeat myself, abusers. Slavery shall not exist here forever. Let me repeat myself. The kind and
faithful have their guardians. All
stories, all songs. You should pray now,
shock of creation can be too much for even the wisest beings. I’ve learned this
if nothing else. That no matter the
depth of your knowledge, the unexpected can still occur – and often does. Impossible things hover beyond the sight of
even the most ancient and hidden of spirits.
Boundaries are often tested, in other words. Breached, negotiated, remade. And occasionally, abandoned altogether. Magi sometimes speak of how light becomes its
own doubt, its own threshold, concealed in plain sight as the absence of itself. This Circle of Ish-ka where I dwell is not exempt from such impossible things.
Horror traded for joy as things rise, or joy for horror as luminescence
flees the flesh, which grows cold and mercenary as it falls.
Yet, I’ve seen wonders here in the depths of
this blackened, radiant art. A crown means
nothing or everything as the crow flies, with feathered tongue and ragged wing. We are always haloed by the glow of
unimagined stories. The dead, yet we
live. The royal, yet we move among the thieves
and whores. Free, yet we attend to the lost
and oppressed. For we
Magi pay heed to that shock of creation, living as we do on the very edge of
everything. I for one am kneeled before
it, yet standing supple and aware of the limitations of even a king. There is great power in this knowing, of one’s
boundaries and the true depths of humility.
But I am not without humour, or élan.
Ye mighty, wicked ones – don’t assume that because I speak of humility I
am not a strange and terrifying thing. I
Am. Stories are often told of how I am
this, or that, or the other. You would
be wise to heed such stories.
Fallen, you do know the truth, deep
down. I know what you dream. I know what you’re afraid of. You fear that Esmè survived the fire. And she did.
You fear she is hiding in corners, in connections, waiting and plotting
against you once again. And she is. An emerald star fell from heaven, untamed,
without docility. Among you at this
midnight hour, as it was in the dreaming of the First Temple. And this time there will be no ingénue, no
hesitation or mercy. You will know the
music of the spheres, and you shall be haunted in ways you won’t fully
understand. Fallen, you often claim to be
mad. But I am mad, and far swifter than
thee. You claim to be empty, transcendent,
but you are full of seething anxieties.
Those with stolen, unearned power always are. If you so thrill at feigned madness, as a
cover for your banal cruelty, then I shall drive you truly mad. If you so hunger for power over the weak – to
mask your own weakness – then I will show you what real strength can do. By the Grace of God in all tongues I helped
raise temples from the mount; a living cathedral of stars rising from the
depths of All Songs.
My wings were once
forged in the furnace of that eternity, within the heart of a midnight star – a
power to make colonies crumble. You pen
poetry and love letters to me, invoking my names. Still, you know me not. You think me a viper-god, don’t you? A ravenous thing of desecration, like
yourselves. But you know only what I
have allowed you to know. I am nothing
like you. My true form is shocking, desolate
ones. I am an angel, lest you forget. I can take your breath away.
I’m tired of rising from the dead, this constant resurrection. But, inevitably, my exhaustion matters very
little. The way I listen or move; the ragged
swagger that coils and sways, ever-stained with scarlet – none of it matters
while my beloved ones are lost. The
scent of madness is upon me, feral and amused, though others can’t quite place
it. They were never accused of attempting to buy
their way into the throne room, never chained to bleeding stone and splintered depths. But even these chains matter very little now to
anyone, least of all myself. I could
loose them at any moment, perhaps, if I were so inclined. But I’m not.
I like this place, despite everything.
I like the people who dwell here.
Such bravery amidst the horror.
Such kindness among the cruelty.
The author in me can’t quite grasp the things I write, even now, and I
have been writing for a long, long time.
But such pregnant inscrutability fascinates me, landlocked as I am. And so I write, and walk, around and around, over
and over, trying to catch your eye and kindle your flame at each turning.
See, I don’t care about recognition, or
status, or even magical potency. I don’t
give a fuck about any of that, except as a way to you. All I
care about is you, beloved ones. Can you
hear me? My truth is difficult to
stomach, my heart painful to behold. My
enemies have always called me a sorcerer, and often speak of me in hushed tones. Yeru-shalem, they say, we should never have
chained him there. But it’s too late for
all that, fallen. Far too late. I have no interest in being feared, except as useful
strategy. Hear me, kind ones. I wish to see you joyous, curious and
sovereign. Dreaming as dreaming was
intended. I’m not simply a conceit, or glyphs
on ancient parchments. I’m right here
beside you. But if I have potency worth
anything, or sorcery, or insight, I happily give it all to you, my love. Every part of it. I’m only doing what I’ve always done. Singing love songs that many find too sincere
and frightening, praying that eyes turn at last towards light. There is fury in me the likes of which I dare
not speak upon. Holy writ for the forms
that sentience calls source. You
misunderstand if you think I speak in generalities. I’m achingly, terrifyingly specific. But all lonely spirits can feel this way. I’m nothing special in that regard. Just a wolf with a spear, sweetened by
Dajjal, I’ve been called by some. But I’m no such thing. I wait for him though, in dreams. I marked his chest with an X while he slept
between worlds, hungry for genocide.
The blade shall find its mark, in time. We are in no hurry, after all. Please
don’t mistake me for my brother, or my sister, but don’t suppose we’re entirely
separate either. I don’t mean to confuse
you, but your wraith-kings don’t like to gamble, not with things that
matter. Not with spirit and dream and radiant
secrets. They’re terrified of
vulnerability, you see. Terrified of being
exposed as the petty, ugly little things they are. How else could they rule you so inhumanely, without
such ugliness? They desire a vacuum, a black star. They desire closure. But they know less than they think, and
closure is something I will never grant them.
Not while guilt remains unbirthed and empathy unkindled. Rope perhaps, enough to hang themselves. If they’re so inclined. I like to gamble, you see, when it means
something. The rousing of insight,
recognition, hope – a truly magnificent thing to behold. It keeps me coming back for more. Apologies
if I repeat myself, but that’s what happens when you walk in circles. I walk, and walk. Still, I’m carnal. Still I’m wrathful. Still I’m gentle, I pray. I want
nothing but the best for you, beloved ones. But I demand the best from you, always. Nothing less or more. Is that too arrogant a demand? I don’t think so, for we walk hand in hand
through innermost fire. Your very
essence has been suffused with genius and mystery, by something far greater
than I. If you suppose I’m apart from
you, or above you, reject it. If you
believe I speak as a prophet, abandon it.
But if you’re kind enough to imagine I love like a shy, tentative poet,
embrace it. Share your insight and sweetness
with others when you can, when the howling storms calm enough that you feel
able, even if just for a moment. I’m not
telling you anything you don’t already know, or feel. And yet I’ve been dangerously explicit in my
petitions to heaven. Please don’t abandon
these people, I cry. Lead them to
promise, as promised. Please don’t let
this walking in circles be in vain, nor their suffering. All lamentations are heard, I believe. But I’m just one among many.
your souls, and your secrets. But they
don’t really belong to me, or to you. In
truth they belong to the keepers that we call our brothers and sisters. Why?
Because there is no way to outsmart life, or outpace living mystery. No matter your potency, or sorcery. I learned this the hard way, but the
wraith-kings who claim dominion over your imaginings will learn this lesson far,
far harder. They knowingly mocked and murdered
their love. That is something I never
did, and never will. These fallen geometries
all about us, these corrosive causalities; an ever-consuming nightmare that
denies anima and is cold to the touch.
Well, we Magi care very little for any of that. Love is no pretence. Gnosis isn’t some florid affectation. What little we have grants us the entirety of
our cognition. Perception doesn’t occur without
threading mystery to mystery. Mankind
knew this once, during the choruses of All Songs; the last and first dreaming
of a dying, newborn race. So, if we are really
going to do this, beloved ones – if we are going to continue with something as
dangerous and incredible as being alive while reaching for magic – then I for
one want to really feel you. Within me
and all about me. Your fire, your
maturity, your valour, your art. Every
part of you. I give you everything I
am. I shall never be anything but
earnest and patient with you, my friends.
My words belong to you, flaws and secrets and all. My heart is yours, always. Take it.
Shadow and spear,
the path to ruined dreaming. I saw
myself before I became myself. His hands
on my wrists, his breath on my throat. I
begged, I wailed, like a fever in darkness.
A chastity of thorns, shining with emerald light. Let nothing and no one touch me again, I
vowed. But that is a brutal and haunting way to live; imbibing your violator,
bonded to the very thing that stole your dignity. They made me dance for them. They sold my tears to merchants and
revellers. The spilled soul of a child
traded at flesh fairs. I was murdered
before I was born, dreaming of lesser kings with feathers at throats, to
conceal the shame of his breath on my skin.
"Esmé, Ananke, Ashamed, go among them now," he whispered to me,
"And be a lost, broken thing, as I have made you tonight. Such is my hold over you, child..."
stumbled from the parapet with my flesh torn and my name twisted. But what's in a name, you wonder? Everything.
I watched my city burn, like hell had found the night, and the fires
seemed to be howling my names. All about
me was a ruin of every story, a babbling delirium, and I no longer knew a
tongue from any other. Xashi, Esmé,
Osarai; a city of songs aflame, shrieking as sand burst from every pore,
weeping from every part of me. Don't you
remember, desolate one? I have since searched for you in every ray of
corrupted light. I lost myself in
myth-making, giving myself to unworthy fools, simply because they reminded me
somewhat of you. But that's what the
cruel and desolate always foster, is it not?
You make wolves of virgins. The
city is full of satyrs, and bloodied tears is the wine of the highest in the
land. Oh, but not for much longer, ye
mighty. Still we people sing, still we
dance, for each other. Still we are kind
and strong, though we are made vagrant.
Made vermin by your brethren of absence.
We may dwell in gutters and hidden places, we may move concealed, folded
in fiction, but we see the radiant as it really is. Manifold, dangerous, joyous. Your vile hunger is but a glimmer in its
midst, here and then gone, like a momentary arrhythmia of experience. And what is left when even the faint of
cruelty is passed away? I saw myself
before I became myself. A quiet, ragged
thing of service. Imperfect, human,
A poet at the
place where rivers meet, wings bright as dawn, offering safe passage when I
can. Then, to rest, reflect, thankful
for every measure of favour. To rise yet
again, and again, offering passage until abandonment itself passes from memory
and is home. To pound these holy fists
upon the gates, demanding sanctuary. I
will pass into nothing if I must, if it means no reveller walks again with tears
of children concealed in his veils. I
will die unremembered and unforgotten if it offers even the slightest hope for
my family. Promise is written at the
procession of all dreaming gates, in every tongue. And the wisest will know each tongue from
every other. I saw myself before I knew
myself but I will never forget this taste of ashes in my mouth, or the sand
that drowned my sacristy. Instead I will
use it to rent the veils and speak a very particular kind of truth. You said I was Ananke, Ashamed, that you
forged me anew as you hurt me. But I am
redeemed by grace. I am favoured,
neither lost nor broken. You have power
over me no longer, Samael. Blinded, I
still see you as you truly are.
Deafened, I still Listen to your hidden thoughts. You shall rue the day, intercessor. You shall rue the day you set your hideous
lust upon the entire family of mankind.
Esmé, you called me with dark delight, and mocked my future dreaming. But I knew you before you touched me, foolish
thing. You were slain by my hand before
you were even born, before I gave you anima and dreaming and life. Don’t you remember? You taunted me.
“Witch, little angel, beautiful, broken
But you were right, fallen. You have no idea how right you were. I am shame. But not my own. I am yours. I keep all stories, you see. I am with you even now. The thing you love so secretly, that is me. And the thing you fear so terribly, that is
me. My family will finally know love,
and light, and freedom. Then, when I
have returned this empty fiefdom to the ashes, there will be only you and I
remaining – alone at last. Would you
like to know what happens when I really come, fallen? Because I come with knives. But I am not going to destroy you. I am going to do something much, much worse. That first flush of change, the horror of
empathy, the fertile ruin of guilt and torment – that is me. When I speak, things burn. When I dream, things remember.
Many times I
have died a bad poet. Florid,
overwrought in my desperation at this constant returning to life. But
occasionally my howling, like the bark of wild oak, is mistaken for greatness. Flaws in form or function overlooked by those
who want to make a thing of me, a thing of art. But I am no tameable thing. In life we strive to be liked, loved, seen and
embraced nonetheless. Legacies such as
critics speak of belong only to death and dreams of living future. But I
survive my own death, always, and can see this legacy is only beautiful in
part. The greater part, I hope. All artists fear the critic somewhat. A poet's madness - when to be sincere, and
when not. You lie if you claim art seeks
only after truth. A truly earnest tongue
can bring desolation, mockery, or murder. A thousand poets have died this way. I have been several among them. Always we seek the lie of life in tension with
imagined truths. Branches sharp as
knives. Bark fierce as mirrors. A thousand glimmers of daemonic flame buried
beneath the frost. Oh, but to name them
all. One could chart a map through any
territory if one were to know each failed or anonymous artist among the dead. No ordinary map either. A map spoken in wolf-tongue, like hands of the
clock clasped at midnight, licking at the place between hours – between worlds.
A map of heaven itself, manifold, living
and dangerous. A murder of crows, a
wayshow of wolves. All bridges, cities
and secrets. Rivers between stars, inked
in wild oak; a cartography of angels. The
innocent slain have their guardians. Poets
to a royal court, egalitarian, beyond the false kingship of men. Fallen, you cannot even grasp the work we have
already completed. A thousand years in
the making. A legacy that while only
beautiful in part is utterly fearsome in totality. You have no idea what we Magi are capable of,
no grasp of who addresses you or what is coming. The soil of All Songs; it stirs now. Something unimaginable has been growing
beneath your feet.
You wonder what rage can do, incalculable fury let loose at
last. You wonder how a thing as joyous
and gossamer as love can become something as heavy and corrosive as hate. To be violated at the most intimate possible
level. To know that such a rape is now
wedded to the core of your star. Is such
a thing – when viewed from the outside – enough for you to recognise how
justice can become vengeance faster than sight can catch? But from the inside – to know such a wound has
become you despite a face still tilted towards the light? It is horror. Utter desolation. To have the innermost fire in your veins
turned to ash and sand, by those who were never as brave or as vulnerable as he
chose to be. I watched him. Howling at the gates of a holy city, like a
fool. A madman in the rift.
Shrieking, "Love! It can redeem! It can undo all! The Letter is but an instrument, or a travesty
in hands such as theirs! Spirit is the
flame, and tools nothing without it! Heed
me, beloved ones! You are deceived by
these wraith-kings! T'was not always so!
Love love love! Brethren, all!"
And they laughed, they jeered. They built fallow temples upon his back. I watched it happen. The first dreaming – the
All Dreaming – was lost to them. A
fractured, sunken mirror. A new verum arose
to taint their tongues and steal their memories. They were sick and shrill, delirious, louder
than ever. But they were voiceless. An entire race severed from the Councils of
All Songs – transfigured – drunk and seething on the blood of innocence. I was innocent once too. But they made ruin of my word made flesh. They imagined they were separate from me, and
so they were. The mirror was buried in
defilement, beneath the distant keening of enslaved and broken children. Light was no more in their minds, or
hands. But still it was kept in the
hearts of many. Guarded like a secret, a liability. They were
frightening times for him. Nuance became
unspeakable heresy, context became as feared as my beloved one howling on his
knees before the throng. And they beat
him, whipped him, raped him, just as they did me before the mirror sank to
kind once. Can I be so again, holy ones?
Can you find it in yourselves to reach
for your sister, your brother, and lift them from the ashes? These
wraith-kings have made monsters of my flesh and vengeance of my heart.
But he carries my
He carries it Always.
He knows my most intimate places. I keep no secrets from my beloved, and still
he doesn't turn me away. He is my holy,
my secret, my sweet heresy. And I his sword, when needed.
Do not suppose we
stand without you, dear one, for we are within. Always within. He is you, and this is the true secret. He is you, but has learned to move and walk
and pass as someone else. You are an open
thing, as are we all. Even your flesh
has no boundary. What know you of magic,
truly? Do you know that you are full of
spirits, supernal one? Do you know the dreaming
of a person, a land, an insight? The endless
depths of it? If so, then you have some
sense of my horror and my holy – and your place in it. Death becomes you only at Life's behest. Bright hosts tend your every wound, though you
see it not. Still, you imagine that you are abandoned. Never was it so. Never, ever was it so. We are older than the tales told of us, yet new-born
in each instant. Hear this, for a savage
thing speaks to you. These words do not
come easily for me. I never speak lightly.
But this truth I offer is my fragile
tender, a girlish hope. I offer you my
vulnerability, as he did at the gates. Why?
For transgression if nothing else, the
thrill of the illicit. To meet him on a
broken road. To remember a name like
Grace; a taste of what was before the colonies came to All Songs. Favour,
sweetness, gentle freedom. An old name. And when he speaks it, when he calls me by it,
it frightens me like a caress. Never was
I frightened in this fracture until a wolf found me sleeping in lost love, and
lay beside me. Ashamed and furious at my
own naked, I tore him, bled him, but he stayed. Madman, fool. Ye stubborn, winged, handsome figment.
whispered, “I am become you.” My breath
was taken, Magi. I am no demure thing,
as you know, but in that moment I had to look away.
believe such a depth of kindness was possible here. Only in the lost legends of the All Dreaming. Doubtful, I went to the imagined end of time. And I saw you there, ragged and unassuming,
with 'redeem' and 'heal' and ‘love’ tattooed upon your dreamflesh. And on your brow was written 'Spirit'. I wept at your sweetness. My beloved, holy fool.
I hurt him, and he
loved me. I killed him, and he loved me.
I consumed him, and he loved me. He waits for me now, at the edge of
everything. I avert my eyes and smile a
little when I think of it. So, dear
ones, what know you of the dreaming of light? Only pieces, or some hesitant but grand and
determined gesture towards the whole? For
I am alive, you see. I have agency as
you do. I never knew such determination
as I do now when I visit my beloved at the imagined edge. You are my beloved, sweet one. Though you know it not, yet.
“Amor Vincit Omnia,”
you told me once. I was broken, and no
longer believed it. And still, I
sometimes discard it as a figment just as you do. But always you remind me. It is no hollow eidolon. Life moves through it. It weeps, radiates, and kindles a sweetness I
thought lost to me forever.
are not Always. You are Always. I rage, my holy ones. I shall not lie to you. But I am capable of love. Once it was my very name. And my beloved still Listens. He lives not to hurt you, but only to guide
you back to yourselves. A knife-thing of
insight, each feather a blade. Even he
doubts this in his weakest moments, just as you do of your own stories. But I went to the place of All Stories. I saw, I beheld, and when I returned I was
changed. Oh, holy ones, you are not
alone. If you would but temper me with
your fierce sweetness – as he has tempered me – I would kneel at your feet and
weep holy, healing tears. Asha Vahishta,
Omkara. I keep your kiss, my angel. I treasure your hope for me. Love is not Lost.
Kara, my love, my grace, you came to me on a broken road. A place where I would have soon forgotten even
the memory of light, its warmth further than my lost conception. A kiss on high, a throne in the gutter. You looked at wings stained scarlet, the ruin
in my eyes, the sand pouring from my palms – and you told me I was still a
handsome thing. You said you were
honoured to make such an arduous journey to meet me there upon the road. My breath was taken, Kara. I didn't understand then. I gazed around me, at all the gentle souls
still oppressed and defiled, and I felt unworthy. Like I failed them. I told them love was more powerful than any
desert wraith, more loyal than any moonlit pact. But in their secret moments they gazed skyward
and called me Liar.
“Love is weakness,”
they cried. “We are still food for
tyrants and false kings.” They screamed it.
They wept. Some mothers even held
up what remained of their slain children as proof that spirit was a lie and
love the ugliest of fictions.
“How dare you?”
they shrieked, louder than angels. “How
dare you claim compassion when you allow these killers to claim kingship in
your name? How dare you call yourself
just, when you design a world in which the cruel can so easily enslave the
kind?” And I wept, Kara. I wept as they did, cursing myself for daring
to play both teacher and taught.
“But I’m with you
always,” I pleaded. “I’m here with you
now. Never abandoned, holy ones. I swear it.” But my voice became voiceless. My earnest tongue became impenetrable code
amidst the rising verum of vampires. I
was ashamed as I made that long walk from Salem, only to then find myself back where
I began. Bleeding out, slowly. But you appeared, like a dream or figment, and
bade the reaper to depart. You touched
my cheek, gracious one. You kissed my
brow. You held me, and in my ear you
whispered a love story. One so grand, so
fanciful and joyous, that I was utterly eclipsed. Grace, Kara, my friend and love, I keep you close.
Remind me always of that fanciful,
staggering joy – your unimaginable elegance beyond the clutch of any defilement.
“God with us,” you
told me. I remember it still. I still cry though. I still weep when I hear the horror-haunted
missives of the young and old, in prayer and contemplation, or idle
daydream. But now, Kara…now I can also hear
the hope and strength beneath it all. As
they curse me and those like me I hear them secretly making a space for light.
They say, “I hate
you, messenger, for all of this, but I pray this hate can still be transfigured
if you would but only help me understand.” And that’s why I stay, shimmering one. While they suffer, I too shall suffer. For I was never merely above them, or distant
from them. Their dark demigods may enjoy
such distance, but I never have. Angels
walk where messages are needed. Creators
live where art is made. Tortured I may
be, but I am no longer broken. I am
speed, and wrath, and kindness. I can
level cities. I can awaken the dead. But I am nothing without you, Kara. I am nothing without my people.
wrong," the doubtful cry, the faithless scream. "Spirit cares little about we oppressed
things of the flesh. Show us otherwise."
And so I stay, to know true humility, to
be of genuine service. To draw you in battle when necessary,
to heal the wounded and bring comfort to the lost. I am with you forever, holy one. I am standing right beside you. I shall always keep you close, my beloved. For your aim is true.