And I am a maddened shadow in the flames. No gods gleam at the end of this frenzy. I shall dance like Owen’s soldiers, in a parody of celebration, a drum roll to mask a ritual and holy death.
No I am not Manuel, I have not seen the face of god, I have not reached that abyss yet. But I am a dog-beset bear, or a fired heretic, set free to dance unto the end.
A smaller figure, but not one of the thieves. Only a symbol for the rumor of things unattainable.
We dream the gods and the gods dream us. When we forget to remake them, the gods die in this world.
The young green tips of the great tree with its roots in the sky begin to wither. We remain, brown seeds scattered far, small knotty things, to spring and die in unlikely places.
How shall we commemorate this day? This day that shall recur all our lives, this recurrent tumult of days and moments, overlaying all the spaces of time and heart, multiplied by each and each.
Mark it well. Draw, then, lines of the heart and of intention, something for the past and something for the future, a few maps of the intention of desire and despair. Mark the grief and the loss beyond time, cover well the joys and celebrations too fleeting to savor then, cradle between these lines the little and the overlooked. For you draw the thread of life thus, measuring it in tandem with the Moirai, mark, mark the unfathomed and the unturnable. This momentary center you make, and the stars wheel around you.