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A Boy is feeling grateful.
Grateful,
for everyone and everything.
Being as they are,
where they are,
how they are.
Being here now,
for his birthday.
For him!
There’s Mamma with the Cake & Candle.
She smiles,
and he feels her warmth from afar.
She’s waiting for Pappa.
She tells the Boy He’s gone just out of sight,
to bring something called “fire”.
The Boy doesn’t know what that is,
“fire”,
has never heard of it before.
Mamma says it that lights dark passages,
and that it would light the Candle for him.
For the Birthday Boy.
She tells the Boy not to worry,
that Pappa promised He would come back.
The Boy doesn’t know what that is either,
“worry”.
But now isn’t the time for questions.
Now is the time for play!
There are kids everywhere.
It is a kid’s party after all.
All his friends are here,
some known,
many to be known.
There is laughter, play and curiosity everywhere,
and in each of them.
This isn’t a normal birthday party,
because these are not normal kids.
This is Eternity.
“eternity?”
No,
Eternity!
“what’s that?”
Everything!
“where’s that?”
Everywhere!
“who’s that?”
Everyone!
So a birthday,
isn’t so much a birthday,
as it is a way of taking turns.
For all,
to celebrate,
one.
The Boy hugs a Girl.
To him,
she’s just arrived.
But of course,
she’s been here all along.
She smiles,
and her smile lifts his own.
The Boy is about to welcome Another Boy,
when a ball hits his back,
and he turns away,
charging with glee into the mouth of mischief.
Pappa has been out of sight longer than expected,
and Mamma,
who has always been impatient,
is starting to get,
a little worried.
❍
Because in Eternity,
the kids play forever,
any game that can be played,
(no matter how silly),
is being played.
Here are some kids with swinging cardboard swords,
and there are some kids playing dead,
whatever that means.
Here are some kids pretending the Cake is small,
and that the only way to grow up,
whatever that means,
is to have a big piece of something small.
To the Boy,
that’s just absurd!
There’s more than enough Cake for everyone!
Why pretend otherwise?
But maybe that’s what makes the game so fun.
The longer and deeper into pretending they all went,
the bigger the surprise waiting for them all at the end.
A lot of the kids do seem to like this game...
Where one Boy saw,
absurdity,
Another Boy spots,
opportunity.
He paints a picture,
and says “this is cake.”
“That’s not Cake!” says the Girl.
“You can’t eat that!”
“No,
but you can own it.” is his clever reply.
There was excitement over this idea.
No game had been played like this one before.
A game based on a lie.
He divides the picture into equally sized pieces,
and in a clever,
dividing stroke,
gives some more,
and gives some less.
The kids go crazy.
There is an uproar of activity.
Within no time,
banks spring up,
as a place to hide your pieces from prying eyes.
Suspicion whispers the question in the night,
“who owns what?”
and envy drives them restless through the day,
“there is never enough”.
And once you’ve felt “there is never enough”,
then there is never enough,
of the feeling of,
“there is never enough”.
Class springs up,
so that now,
party hats can only be worn,
if your pieces are a certain number.
But because no one knows what a number is,
or how to count,
mathematicians spring up too.
There is a problem though.
Some of the kids are giving away all of their pieces,
to those who ask.
“It sets a bad example and isn’t playing fair!”
complain the kids who started with the most pieces.
So once a year,
everyone has to report how many pieces they own.
But because no one knows what a year is,
or when it’s over,
they roll a ball in a circle,
and call it a year.
A game needs rules,
and kids need games.
Anyone who doesn’t play fair,
will be playing by themselves,
and what kid wants to do that!
The Boy wants to be a good sport about it all,
so he plays along.
But he has to admit,
there is something strange about this game...
The only way to really play it,
is to really believe that your picture of the cake,
is really Cake!
But the real Cake is always right here,
in front of your eyes and under your nose,
for you to see and smell,
just not taste.
Not until the Candle is lit,
and the Birthday Boy blows it out.
The Boy knows all this.
Of course he does!
He’s the Birthday Boy after all.
It’s his turn to blow out the Candle.
And yet,
there is something about this game,
that makes him forget…
And the longer he plays,
the harder it becomes to remember.
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Mamma is distraught.
It has been a long, long time,
since Pappa has been gone.
Time became felt,
as the length of His absence.
Sensing her despair,
the Boy hugs his Mamma,
but no one hugs him back!
This is his first shock awakening.
He can touch her,
but he can no longer feel her.
Where there was once warmth,
there is now only flesh.
In a panic he runs to the others for help.
They ask him who he is.
He says he needs help.
They ask him how many pieces of the cake he owns?
He says he doesn’t know,
he doesn’t care,
that he’s scared,
that his Mamma doesn’t feel right,
and he doesn’t know what to do.
They tell him to ask science.
“What’s science?” he asks.
They look at him horrified.
They tell him science is the answer.
He says “Doesn’t the answer depend on the question?”
They look at him horrified again.
They tell him science is the answer,
that depends on no one.
That is why it is science!
He asks them how to ask science.
They tell him to ask the scientists.
He asks them which one of the kids is the scientist.
They laugh at him.
They tell him science is no one scientist,
that is why they can depend on it.
Depend on that,
which depends on no one.
The Boy doesn’t have time for these riddles.
His Mamma is in trouble,
his Pappa is missing,
and these kids are being mean to him.
As he’s leaving,
he asks them who do they think they are,
that they can be so mean like that?
Philosophers,
is their reply.
The Boy reaches a box,
into which one places a question,
written on a card,
and gets back an answer
written on a card.
The kids say that this box is the way,
to ask science something,
about anything.
The kids say that science has never let them down,
and has scientifically proven,
that it can never let them down.
The Boy says that he doesn’t have a question about some “thing”,
but instead has a question about some “one”,
his Mamma,
who isn’t hugging him back and who doesn’t feel warm like she used to.
The scientists tell him that he is in fact,
mistaken,
that she is in fact,
a thing,
like everything else.
Because science knows every thing,
every one,
must also be a thing,
to be known by science.
Riddles,
all the way down.
The Boy scribbles his frantic question onto a card and puts it into the box.
The box spits out a card that says “nonsense”.
He asks them what’s that?
They tell him he is talking about things that don’t exist,
like this thing called “warmth”.
“It does exist!” the Boy protests.
“Does not!” they protest back.
“Does too!” he re-raises.
“Prove it then.” they challenge.
The Boy,
who despite all he is going through,
is still just a Boy,
reaches out to hug one of them.
“Get back you dirty monkey!” they snarl.
“You can’t do that.
That’s no way of proving anything you stupid boy!
They laugh at him again.
You must write down your proof on a card,
put it in the box,
and if and only if it is scientifically true,
then and only then,
is it actually true.
Nought otherwise.” they finish,
pinching their noses high and away from him.
He is totally stumped.
Can a boy hug a box?
This has all been a huge waste of time,
and for the first time in Eternity,
the Boy feels time as running out.
Suddenly,
there is another uproar.
One of the kids playing dead,
actually died.
Before anyone can ask what that means,
or check if maybe he’s still just playing dead,
there spring up the priests to tell them exactly what it means.
For them,
and for all of Eternity.
They were bad.
Bad!
This,
they must always remember,
That,
they must never forget.
They were bad when they remembered,
and they were bad when they forgot.
Each one of them was responsible for this heinous crime.
Which of them could have the gall to claim innocence,
when it was innocence itself that had bled,
under their tongued forks and knives.
Heathens…
Scoundrels!
Rapscallions!
(poets had sprung up too during this time,
to help priests invent new words for calling someone bad).
Eternity had never witnessed anything like it.
These kids,
still wearing their their tiny bodies like blankets,
had stopped playing entirely,
and are only ever interested in talking.
And the only thing coming out of all this talking,
seemingly,
is more talking!
At a time when everyone is bad,
the new favorite game became figuring out which group is worse.
Perhaps it was the red shirts...
You could never trust a red shirt they say.
Do you know where they got all that red from?
Or what about those who called the Cake, “pie”.
Can you really trust someone who says “Birthday pie”?
No, of course not.
It’s just not how things are talked about around here.
Surely though,
we can all agree,
that those who are standing over there,
are one day going to come for us,
who are standing over here.
So it only makes sense,
that we go after them over there first!
After the scientists had repeated enough times that warmth isn't real,
and the priests had reminded them enough times that they were all bad,
the kids became trapped in a place called the “the in between”.
And it was there,
that they felt it.
Cold.
Space.
The cold of space,
of the space in between.
spoke
The Boy is deeply troubled by what he is seeing,
because in his heart he knows,
there is enough warmth for everyone!
You only have to reach out,
and you’ll find it as a kindling of kindness,
in yourself and in each other.
But each time he tries to reach out to them,
he is hurt by them for trying.
They push him away,
call him mean names,
remind him he is bad,
tell him he has big ears,
twist his ears,
ignore him,
make promises,
intentionally break them,
just to laugh at him,
for still trusting them.
Despite all this,
he still believes he can help,
All it takes is one hug to feel it.
To know that warmth is real.
It’s just out of sight,
like Pappa.
He knows he can help,
but they won’t let him close.
Their indifference,
their silence sustained,
gives birth to the Boy’s first doubts about himself.
“Who am I?”
“I…I’m the Birthday Boy of course.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“You sure don’t look like a Birthday Boy,
you look sad!”
“And see,
no one will play with you.”
“What kind of Birthday Boy is that,
huh?”
“Why should you be better than us?
Who is to say that this is all for you?
Do you really believe that?
Are you really that stupid?”
“Stupid boy.
Sensing another opportunity,
Another Boy becomes the self proclaimed “Real Birthday Boy”,
and lays claim to both Cake & Candle as his birthright.
Then,
to unite the very people he divided,
he gives them what they crave most:
A common enemy.
“Behold! The Withering Witch!” sermons the Self Proclaimed.
“She cast an evil spell on us so that we forget that I am the Real Birthday Boy.
Look at her,
she is different from us.
Thrice our size no doubt to carry the weight of her evil soul.
But fear not my children,
for I have seen the way.
And the way…
is through!” he crescendos and points a finger at Mamma.
That which was looming,
is now loosed.
The mob is born.
They chain her,
strip her,
gag her,
beat her,
but take extraordinary care to not blind her.
Science concludes beyond reasonable doubt,
that she is in fact,
not a she but an it.
And it is in fact,
nothing more and nothing less,
than a source of milk.
A source whose extraction ought to be optimized,
no matter the cost.
A graph that must move “up and to the right”,
no matter the cost.
Never enough.
No matter the cost.
Never enough.
No matter the cost.
Machines are affixed to its breasts,
to be kept pumping at all times.
Each new idea,
to make them tighter, ruthless, more relentless,
is hailed as progress and innovation.
And what if it will not produce?
Then science will make it produce.
And make no mistake about it.
Science will keep it alive like this,
forever.
The priests bless the milk.
The businessmen sell it,
and marketing seals her fate,
by rewriting collective memory,
so that no one remembers a time before the flow of milk,
as a way of life.
scatter_plot
The Boy collapses in horror.
What boy can keep watching,
the creative,
calculated,
cruelty
of what they are doing to her.
To his Mamma!
He is totally stumped.
Can a boy stop a mob?
He closes his eyes,
and goes out of sight,
desperately looking for Pappa.
“Pappa!
Please come back!
Please!” he begs.
“I don’t want fire.
I don’t want the candle, or the cake.
I don’t want any of it!
Please come back and stop what they are doing to Mamma.
Please! Please! Please!” he screams,
a tiny fist knocking at the gates the his chest
but no one answers.
The Boy is going mad with grief.
There is nowhere to go,
nowhere to escape.
(suicide,
at this time,
is just a thought experiment philosophers like to tickle each other with,
while in each other's underwear.)
He can’t breathe,
he can’t hold on,
to anything,
to anyone,
they are all laughing at him,
they are always laughing at him.
He is slipping,
his eyes are sinking deeper and deeper into his head,
he can’t stop feeling.
Why can’t he stop feeling?
Isn’t it enough that he knows what they are doing to her?
Why must he also feel it?
The threads of his fragile sanity are quickly snapping.
A glove going limp, as a hand is withdrawing.
So what does the Boy do?
The only thing he can do.
He forgets his Mamma,
or that he ever had one.
In forgetting her,
he forgets himself.
In forgetting her warmth,
he forgets his own.
The Boy,
is now,
Lost.
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A long time later,
a Girl is bored by the mob’s game called society,
and her curiosity and bravery leads her to the Boy.
She’s never seen anyone like him before.
The depths of his suffering!
He just lays there all the time,
waiting for the worst to happen.
She asks him a question,
nothing!
Tries to play with him,
nothing!
Tries to look for him in his eyes,
nothing!
The Girl is kind,
but also impatient.
So she lifts the Boy up into her arms,
and gives him a big hug.
At first,
the Boy feels like he’s dying.
That death has come for him,
in the shape of a little girl’s hug,
is morbidly ironic.
He’s shaking,
crying,
screaming.
Eyes shut,
shivering all over.
The Girl holds on.
“Any moment now,
it’s going to happen.” she reassures herself.
“Any moment now,
it’s going to happen” he reassures himself.
“She’s going to be mean to me.
She’s going to be mean to me,
like all the other kids.
Like all the voices in my head,
she’s going to say mean things about me,
and they won’t go away,
they’ll go on and on and on.”
She holds on.
Holds on, extra tight.
The voices take control of the Boy’s jaw,
and now he hears all the mean things said about him,
both inside and outside his head,
in his own voice.
“Stupid boy!
Stupid, stupid boy!”
“You really think you’re the Real Birthday Boy?
You?
HA!”
“We don’t need you, we’ve never needed you.
We have our Birthday Boy, we chose him.
Who are you compared to him?”
“Look at him,
he’s beautiful…
A work of art.
He looks like an angel.
Now that!
That is a Birthday Boy worthy of our attention.”
“And you?
Just look at you,
I wouldn’t want to play with you.”
“You look like mud” spits society,
in the Boy’s own voice at him.
In a child’s heart,
nothing cuts deeper than comparison.
The Girl is deeply disturbed by what she’s hearing.
She doesn’t know how much longer she can hold on.
He’s exhausted by life,
completely spent by his sorrow.
So tired…
too tired to resist.
He becomes still,
if just for a moment.
But even a moment,
is enough for what comes next.
Heart recognizes heart.
Warmth recognizes warmth.
The two become one,
and the one becomes...
Open.
adjust
Warmth…
Everywhere…
There was warmth,
everywhere.
Everywhere has warmth!
It was as if he was hugging them all,
everywhere,
all at once.
A thing he didn’t think possible with his body,
was here,
possible.
Every single being,
ever to have lived,
or ever to live,
they were all here,
in Life’s embrace.
Life…
…is Warmth!
That’s it!
Life is warmth passing through...
There was so much of it,
at every scale
in every level,
of existence.
So much beauty,
so much abundance.
The never ending beauty,
of the beautiful never ending.
The warmth of his heart,
that he was afraid had left him,
where could it have gone?
If warmth was everywhere,
then where had fear taken him,
that was outside of everywhere?
His body couldn’t take any more of this.
It was melting,
like a pool of wax underneath a smoking wick.
The Candle!
That’s it!
He knew what he had to do.
He opens his eyes just as she opens hers,
and between them flows a new kind of warmth.
One that doesn’t need a smile or a hug to carry it.
But one that is carried,
by the way they carry their care for each other.
“I remember you now.
You were the one I came here to see.” she whispers.
“Promise me...” she continues.
“Promise me that no matter what comes next,
no matter what the others say,
no matter how mean it gets.”
“Promise me that you’ll never say a mean thing,
about yourself,
to yourself again.” she says.
“When others say mean things,
it doesn’t mean anything!
“But when you say a mean thing,
to yourself,
about yourself,
that’s when it has meaning.”
“That’s when,
it means…
but you just can’t do that okay!” she stamps her foot,
tender tears raining.
“Promise me.” she repeats.
A Boy promises,
and a Girl remembers.
The warmth between them,
grows.
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By this time,
there was little reason to doubt,
the Self Proclaimed.
Every institution had validated,
that his was in fact,
the only rightful claim,
to both Cake & Candle.
Historians wove a mesmerizing tapestry called history,
to clearly explain the inevitable unfolding of justice,
that brought them all to this noble station.
There was just one problem.
In all this time,
the Candle had not been lit.
An inconvenient chip,
on an otherwise perfect fresco.
The Candle was not lit,
this was an inconvenient fact.
And like any fact with an unsatisfactory coverup,
it had the power to haunt one’s mind.
In this case,
only one mind.
The priests called it mystery,
and not just any mystery mind you.
It was the warp and woof,
the womb and bosom,
the mystery betwixt all mysteries.
It was,
the presence of the breast…
of the Holy Mother herself!
Mysteria!
(the priests could only whisper her name once a year,
when a ball rolled in a circle,
and would draw trembling shapes in the air,
to ward off evil spirits.)
The scientists said there was no mystery at all.
That the candle was in fact,
lit and unlit,
at the same time,
depending on the speed of the observer,
and something about a cat in a box.
The philosophers,
well,
no one knew what they were thinking anymore,
and luckily,
everyone had stopped asking.
With all the kids distracted in idle talk,
the Candle only haunted one mind.
The Self Proclaimed mind.
It stood as a symbol,
of his towering insecurity:
i
am a fraud,
it whispers to him.
He is always restless,
always in a state of waiting,
of one day being found out.
Not as he says he is,
but as he actually is.
A lie,
that cannot even remember,
how it began,
or if there ever really was,
truth.
nest_thermostat_gen_3
The Boy does not want violence.
He only wants to find out,
if the warmth of his heart,
and the feeling of fire,
that great unknown,
for which it all began,
have anything in common.
If the Candle is lit,
then the Birthday Boy,
whoever he may be,
can step forward to blow it out.
If Another Boy is who he says he is,
then so be it.
The Boy will not fight it.
Through suffering,
the Boy has aleady paid the heaviest price,
with a coin he never imagined he would have to bargain.
Laughter, play and curiosity,
precious bits of boyhood,
unceremoniously buried,
in tiny coffins.
But the Boy remains a boy,
because miraculously,
he remains sweet and sincere.
He means what he says,
and what he says,
is never mean.
He does not wish to harm anyone,
and so the Girl has an idea.
A very clever idea.
Of each kid,
she paints a picture,
and says:
“This is you.”
“That’s not me!
I can’t feel that” they each reply.
“No, but I can” replies the Girl.
There is excitement over this idea.
Everyone knew,
because the priests constantly reminded them,
that when two kids hugged each another,
the devil hugged them both.
But no one ever said anything about hugging a picture!
The kids go crazy.
Suddenly there was a way to hug again.
Of course,
there’s no warmth in hugging a picture.
But the kids are so cold,
and so desperate for a hug,
that anything will do.
The Girl provides the Boy with his opening.
They part their ways,
but there is no sadness in their parting.
Because where ever they go,
they carry the thought of each other,
with the same care,
with which they once carried each other.
And so where ever they go,
they feel that they are carried.
However heavy the dark,
in lifting each other,
they feel they are light.
And in the dark,
He remembers His promise.
trip_origin
The Boy faces the Self Proclaimed.
Self faces doubt.
He tries to reason with him,
pleads peace with him,
promises to play with him,
but the Self Proclaimed will not listen.
Here,
in the Boy,
is the viper’s nest.
“The Boy,
must die...
You know this.” the Self Proclaimed hears a fanged whisper.
“Who are you?” the Self Proclaimed whispers back,
startled at the unveiling of this dark passenger.
“I am the echo,
I am the swarm,
I am self…preservation” it slithers.
“Take what’s yours,
kill this worm,
and none shall dare challenge,
your self proclaimation” his spine sways hypnotic.
The Self Proclaimed strikes,
and the Boy is forced to retaliate.
They begin to fight...
and fight.
Fighting,
with the amusing intensity of children.
Of squeaky sounds and dramatic deaths.
Of cardboard, confetti and holy wars.
Fighting with the whole world on the line,
for that noble cause,
the magic of which only a child’s imagination,
has the power to furnish.
But then many eras begin to pass.
The Stone age,
and they fight with clubs.
The Iron age,
and they fight with swords.
The Gunpowder age,
and they fight with muskets.
Until finally,
the Information age,
and they fight with ideas.
Though they fight as sworn enemies,
without mirth or mercy,
something is happening to both of them.
The boys are growing.
They are growing each other.
Without knowing it,
without realizing it,
certainly without intending it,
each boy was helping the other to grow.
Grow,
smarter,
faster,
stronger.
More,
skillful,
determined,
resourceful.
The ingenuity of each challenge created by one,
is exactly the food needed,
to trigger the next growth spurt of the other.
Each limit,
surpassed.
Each horizon,
redrawn.
This push & pull of opposites continues,
relentless like the river,
until one day,
there are no boys left.
Here,
stand Men.
Lethal.
Majestic.
The culmination of aeons of evolution.
The diamond cut by the blade of time.
The actuality dreamt in the womb of possibility.
He who lay hidden in stone,
brought out by the chisel,
for all to see.
Whether by choice or chance,
it matters not.
Whether by destiny or design,
it matters not.
What matters,
is that they have arrived.
When a Prince arrives,
then so do the King and Queen,
and the strength and nobility of their bloodline.
To address only the Prince,
is to forget who he represents,
and who is re-presented,
by time, for time, through time.
And so it is with Man.
Here,
stand the light bearers,
of consciousness.
Here,
stand Men.
Each one was tested and tempered,
by the full wit and measure of the other.
That one still stands,
is the highest seal of approval,
of the other.
Nothing held back.
Every instinct,
set to kill.
Amidst these sworn opposites,
a spiralling collapse of two great suns
a new kind of heat is radiating.
Admiration.
There is no denying it.
The total satisfaction one feels,
as the other anticipates his traps,
thwarts his efforts,
is equal to his skill and determination.
Admiration,
that time and again,
the other does not let you down,
by meeting their end in you,
today.
That you are not alone,
in giving it your best.
Time and again,
the other shows you,
that your best still isn’t enough,
to best them.
That you must dig deeper…
and deeper.
And the greatest gift of all?
The greatest gift of all,
is the revelation,
that you can dig deeper.
That there is always more for you to find,
always more for you to give.
The greatest gift of all,
is the astonishing rediscovery,
of Eternity within you.
Only a worthy rival,
and only a rivalry worthy of song,
can give you such a gift.
And only such a gift,
is truly yours to keep.
contrast
Both Men were driven by the blaze of their rivalry,
but only the Man has the sensitivity to notice,
a deeper dimension to this mutually reluctant admiration.
Present even in the magma,
of this volcanic violence,
is the unmistakeable ember,
of humble kindling origin.
There is warmth here too…
What? How can that be?
Warmth,
in War!?
That’s impossible.
Incomprehensible!
Surely some kind of mistake.
But the Man remembers,
an old wisdom of warmth.
Of finding it not just in unexpected places,
but of unexpectedly finding it everywhere.
There is warmth here too,
and in this déjà vu,
the Man feels a great longing to hug,
a lost little Boy.
What was this feeling,
this throughline,
that connected the two?
What tides of time,
carried him away from the Boy he wanted to remain,
to this isle of Man he can now never escape.
When really,
does the Man emerge from the Boy?
Where does the Boy go?
Where was the Boy now?
The Man meditates,
and in silence and stillness,
warmth reveals,
its final secret.
Hope.
Life,
Warmth,
and Hope are one.
Warmth gives Life Hope.
Hope gives Life Warmth.
And Life?
Life is the two,
passing through.
Life, Warmth and Hope,
whisper as one,
and say:
“Stay alive.”
That was it.
A Mother's whisper inside the womb.
A Father's whisper outside,
from out of sight.
“Stay alive.”
Two whispers,
one hope.
The Man had always hoped in secret,
that the Self Proclaimed would not meet his end in the Man.
Not today.
That he would live to fight another day.
Who is a foe,
whom one hopes to never defeat?
When really,
does the foe emerge from the friend?
Where does the friend go?
Where was the friend now?
He who was forgotten,
is finally remembered.
radio_button_partial
“I will not fight you” says the Man,
unarmed,
facing the Self Proclaimed.
Self faces doubt.
Every ridge,
in the Self Proclaimed’s spine
explodes in rapture.
A haze of venomous focus floods his mind.
“Take!
Take his life now!
Now!
Strike!” it commands.
But he hesitates.
“Why is he doing this?
Is this a new trick?”
self proclaims doubt.
“I will not fight you.” the Man repeats calmly.
“Why are you doing this?
Do you really think I’d be childish enough to trust you?” the Self Proclaimed spits fighting for control.
“I know who I am and what I am fighting for” the Man replies calmly.
“The when of it all is lost to me,
but I remember the why.”
“I remember feeling,
a power in my heart that I once believed,
could lift and light others around me.”
“And even though I still don’t know how,
I just knew…”
“That the heart of whoever it is that we've all been waiting for,
or whatever it is that we've all been waiting for,
that the heart of this,
man or matter
would feel like our own.
Not foreign,
but familiar.
I dreamt of a new beginning,
of something new,
someone new.
But I see now,
that the only way through,
is through you.
A Man who I now remember.
Not as foe,
but as friend forgotten.
You were once another boy,
just like I was.
I cannot fight you brother,
for you are foreign to me no more.
If there was a line in the sand,
then I can no longer see it,
and am relieved.
Nothing new can be hoped for,
in the story of mankind
if it continues to be written,
in brother’s blood.
And my pen thirsts,
for new ink...” the Man speaks sincerely.
“This is a trick!
You lie!
I don’t believe you!” the Self Proclaimed screams.
It's very close now...
He can't hold it back much longer.
His uncertainty throbbing,
at what comes next.
Like a trapped vein,
sensing a slow, sacrificial knife.
“Forgive me.
It was never my intention,
to turn away from you.” the Man finishes as he closes his eyes.
“Kill him!”
“Kill him now!
What are you waiting for!” thrashes the reptile taking over.
“I…I can’t…
He’s…he’s right.
He knows who he is and I know who I am.”
“I’ve always taken...
taken out of turn.”
“It's only through him,
that I could ever know myself.”
“I...I know that I'm not the one. It wasn't mine to take...
“Which can only mean that…
He’s the one!” squeaks a wide eyed, hurt little boy in the Self Proclaimed’s heart.
“You Fool!”
“KHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” the reptile roars.
The self possessed charges at the Man,
sword in his right hand.
“NO!” the Self Proclaimed yells,
but he cannot stop a man possessed.
The Man hears this inner turmoil,
hears death divided in its purpose,
and his admiration for his friend burns brighter than ever.
He was,
who he remembered him to be.
The Man lets in,
what he understands to be,
his last breath.
radio_button_unchecked
A Man is feeling grateful.
Grateful,
for having once been a Boy.
Sweet and sincere.
Right as the sword thrusts towards the Man’s heart,
the Self Proclaimed summons all that is left,
and catches its tip,
through the palm of his left hand.
Right ravages left.
Left restrains right.
The mind divided,
with nowhere to go,
drives the blade back,
towards its own source:
The brain.
A connection is severed,
the spell is broken,
and the Self Proclaimed,
proclaims no more.
The Man opens his eyes,
and rushes to his friend’s side.
He looks into his eyes,
and finds looking back,
not a dying man,
but a mirror.
In its reflection,
Another Boy,
Another Man,
standing together,
united at last.
One last message,
to be delivered.
Not as two,
but as one.
Not as part,
but as whole.
One life,
united in death,
whispers:
“I remember you now.
You were the one I came here to see.”
animation
The Man closes his eyes,
and begins to weep.
Out of sight,
he finds he is not alone.
He can hear a little boy crying,
at the end of a long dark passage.
A Boy he recognizes,
as sweet and sincere.
The Man wants nothing more than to comfort the Boy,
to hug him,
to tell him:
“Everything’s going to be alright.”
“I’m here.”
And so he begins to travel
Travel through,
travel back.
Back,
further back.
Through darkness,
further black.
Through tears,
through time.
All the way back,
to the source,
of all tears and time.
To the cradle within the temple,
to the child within the cradle,
to the heart within the child,
to the beginning within the end.
The Man opens his eyes and finds the Boy,
finds that He is the Boy,
has always been the Boy,
and from henceforth:
He is both.
He is back,
and standing next to Him,
the unlit Candle.
The kids gather around Him slowly,
awestruck by His form and radiance.
He is a great blurring.
A dance of duality,
a shifting of perspectives.
No matter how hard they try,
He is one nought ahead of who they think He is.
He cannot be caught by their net of names.
He is the wind,
that the outstretched palm can feel gently passing over,
but the clenched fist can never quite grasp.
He is completely unknowable to their minds,
and yet is instantly recognizable to their hearts.
“what happens next?”
“what happens next?”
“what happens next?”
He closes His eyes,
and brings His palms together.
He thinks now of the Girl.
Of Her smile.
Of Her hands.
The mischief of knowing She held back in Her eyes,
and the impatience of action She wisely didn’t.
But more than anything else,
He thinks of the warmth She gave Him,
freely and without fear,
at a time when He had lost His own.
His palms push & pull,
moving in opposites,
generating heat.
He whispers into the space they hold in between:
“fire”
“fire” “fire”
“fire” “fire” “fire”
“fire” “fire”
“fire”
He feels it,
before He knows it,
and it feels warm,
just as He always believed it would.
He opens His eyes,
and finds an elemental cradled between His palms.
A new existence,
naked,
burning,
smokeless,
trusting.
In shock,
they all draw breath as one.
“whoaaaaa...”
“what happens next?”
“what happens next?”
He wills it,
and it obeys.
Moving across space,
it catches hold of both wick and wicked.
The Candle is lit,
and the world is lit a new.
The people,
they can see!
Themselves.
Others.
Others in Themselves.
Themselves in Others.
An other self,
united at last with,
Another self.
masked_transitions
He lets in a deep breath,
holds the wave of the world,
at this crest of total self awareness.
All that has been gained…
is all that can still be lost!
“...what happens next?”
He blows out,
a moment shudders,
and the world erupts in cheer!
The people!
They can still see!
The flame was gone,
but the light remained!
Hope had been set free!
A new day,
a new birth,
and a new people,
hold each other’s heart as close as their own,
and with one voice,
begin to sing.
He is pleased.
Then,
He remembers,
one final promise.
An entire civilization’s worth of technology surrounded Her,
like a monstrous metal sun,
radiating cold calculations.
Never enough.
No matter the cost.
Never enough.
No matter the cost.
Not the “Stay alive” of life,
but the “Keep alive” of death.
This was hope turned hideous.
He tore them all down.
All machines,
all systems,
all rules,
and set Her free.
She had been sucked dry,
left a withering husk.
Her eyes,
which had lost sight of The End,
now looked upon Him,
A New Beginning.
“You came back…”
“I promised I would.”
all_inclusive