chasing all my demons out,
take me by the hand / through the doubt
It is a hard thing to wrap one’s mind around the transient nature of eternity. That the wind is always blowing, even if you do not feel it. That the sun is always shining, even if you do not see it. To think about the size of an ocean, of a continent, of a planet; times and masses larger than human comprehension. To think that things so great and grand had a beginning. Where was the ‘start’? Of time, of growth? An unfathomable concept.
The opposite, then, the comforting trough of thought, of mind, and of heart, was to believe in a religion. That creatures of godly power held responsibility for our beginnings, and the beginnings of things wilder and more powerful than mortals would ever be. The ocean. The planet. The troubling thought that the sky had to come from somewhere was more easily digested by pointing a finger and saying a deity did it.
Physical things on this earth had starts and ends not visible to the eye; so, too, did feelings. Feelings were interwoven naturally in time, times of happiness, times of sadness, and it was all a continuity, it was all eternal, because even when Atlas would die someday there would still be feelings and there would still be happiness, sadness, the whole gambit, the entire spectrum. Was it an eternal, interconnected thread? Did elation, did sorrow, did they belong to any one person-- this happiness is mine, that happiness is yours?
Hard thoughts to think. He was going in circles, making his brain hurt, when he heard the soft sound of someone approaching. He stepped back from the castle walls and turned to see his new guest, only to find it was Elena, Dusk Queen, herself. “My lady,” he bid her welcome, giving his finest bow-- smooth and practiced, the flexing of muscles long unused but well worn in. When he lifted his head his pale golden hair flopped in his eyes; he removed it with a light toss of his head.
Are you lost, was her question, and it was simple and very complex at the same time. Every answer that sprung to his tongue was either a lie or extremely highfalutin. When had he turned into such a philosopher? “At the risk of sounding pompous, I’m not really lost, because I have nowhere to be.” Did he ever really have anywhere to be? Sometimes he felt like a mote of light on the wind, transient as the questions of time and space.
“It’s quite early, my lady,” he said, looking back to the horizon. The sun had just begun to lighten the sky, but had not stretched fingers over the horizon. “I hope you are well?”
The opposite, then, the comforting trough of thought, of mind, and of heart, was to believe in a religion. That creatures of godly power held responsibility for our beginnings, and the beginnings of things wilder and more powerful than mortals would ever be. The ocean. The planet. The troubling thought that the sky had to come from somewhere was more easily digested by pointing a finger and saying a deity did it.
Physical things on this earth had starts and ends not visible to the eye; so, too, did feelings. Feelings were interwoven naturally in time, times of happiness, times of sadness, and it was all a continuity, it was all eternal, because even when Atlas would die someday there would still be feelings and there would still be happiness, sadness, the whole gambit, the entire spectrum. Was it an eternal, interconnected thread? Did elation, did sorrow, did they belong to any one person-- this happiness is mine, that happiness is yours?
Hard thoughts to think. He was going in circles, making his brain hurt, when he heard the soft sound of someone approaching. He stepped back from the castle walls and turned to see his new guest, only to find it was Elena, Dusk Queen, herself. “My lady,” he bid her welcome, giving his finest bow-- smooth and practiced, the flexing of muscles long unused but well worn in. When he lifted his head his pale golden hair flopped in his eyes; he removed it with a light toss of his head.
Are you lost, was her question, and it was simple and very complex at the same time. Every answer that sprung to his tongue was either a lie or extremely highfalutin. When had he turned into such a philosopher? “At the risk of sounding pompous, I’m not really lost, because I have nowhere to be.” Did he ever really have anywhere to be? Sometimes he felt like a mote of light on the wind, transient as the questions of time and space.
“It’s quite early, my lady,” he said, looking back to the horizon. The sun had just begun to lighten the sky, but had not stretched fingers over the horizon. “I hope you are well?”
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