Your wonder is like a devious strand of consciousness, wandering far off from the collective, creating paths of it’s own and creating limitless consequences we have only begun to learn of. You’re a product of the calamity that you were forced to witness, a creation of a tragedy those before you could not even fathom. But now, on your own and tracing moments that seem much too fragile for you to take in – you too, believe you must become something more. All your life you have praised, sacrificed, and worshipped, only for the one thing you held so close to leave you behind. Keep the secrets that were once whispered in passing to yourself, for those who chose to listen are the only ones who are deserving of it’s contents. We hold no ill-will towards your decisions made, and shall bare no repercussions going forward, for as of now you are as free as you can be in this reality, but much like us all – still bound by the chains of fates that lie in the palms of this reality.
Even now when I hold still as the air the winds shift, I can hear the voices of those who came before, their long-lost mantras, echoing throughout the fabric of this reality. Submerged in darkness, they knew that their fates had arrived; like otherworld visitors descending within the night. But despite all that they had lost, and the absence that was left in the wake; even following the transitions and the evolutions that would follow – they sought to believe for the last time. There was commitment and allegiance then, and much more than I will ever know; so much of the essence of those things has dwindled over time before my eyes, I could also say it is no longer existent. My commitment and allegiance too, faulty at it’s very foundation, like a pillar that stands tall to meet the sun no longer sure if it wishes to stand, no longer sure if it can bare witness to the death of they only constant it ever knew. And so with that has spawned eras of cycles and circles, an experience caught up in a state of stagnation.
But much like the cycles and circles that makeup the very nature of these changing seasons, so does the inevitable state of change, and the overall absence of stagnation. For perhaps those who swore to the light of the past knew that even death is forward, or perhaps they didn’t. A cycle left untouched is a circle left unaltered, and though changing seasons often give me something more to believe in, I know all to well that this has become a cycle of it’s own, a circle meant to be broken.
