The morphing
The first few just zip past without meaning a thing. The valuts in memory banks I do not share hold all of the meaning, through which I may only live vicariously. By ten perfection was achieved. The castes are not yet obvious and I was as my imagination dictated. Warriors and wizards were there, and I could be counted among their ranks. So I tried to be great. And they piled on, one atop the other until ten more were chalked up on the blackboard. But I could not find the wizard, and the warrior no longer held my gaze. So it was the wizard I desired, mind lost in the stygian depths of some long-forgotten tome. And so I stayed looking for the spell, the only spell that could restore perfection. At some length the spell was found. I understood the magic that was there and I pursued it with all that I was capable to give. Many have given more, but I was only so much of a human being, never a full-fledged member of the species.
And I think I know the spell. And I think it has been cast. But the ground does not hold the necessary mana. Many have cast that spell and few have replenished the reserves of power. Where once bodies were thrown, deprived of their hearts, from high monuments now there is begging... the urging that the blood was drawn for any reason that we can still discern. We not only avoid the sacrifices, but we refuse to acknowledge the longing that once guided our hands to carve the knives. It was there above us to be striven towards with surety and grace. But Eliot was right, it ends with a whimper, and that whimper has come to me quickly. I can't see that high, nor is there propulsion. The mana from the depleted ground will not give energy to the old incantations.
And I, who have chanted them without success, cannot tell if it's the earth who lacks the magic, or I who cannot pay the price for the energy to pulse through unworthy veins. I'm alone in the Stygian tower and the tomes now are only mighty volumes with lists of words that I cannot share. The words are memorized yet impossible. Babble collects on babble. My mind was in service to something that cannot be, and it has cost me more than i'm willing to continue to pay on the off chance that I'm right.
What's tangible lies in the other direction. The treasure goes to he who slays the dragon, not he who reasons that the dragon deserves the treasure more. Would that I could give my life for the magic. I can think of nothing greater than giving myself over so that the mana could once against nourish the ground for future magi. But I can't will that to happen. It wasn't persecution that zapped the bloom and vitality from Camelot, but a lethal blend of satisfaction and regret.
But whatever the case, no more. The tree has stood there too long, the mighty wood unlike the other wood. Can I discern no simply on a promise? No. I will eat the fruit and kiss the snake. Then I hope that I can once again say the magic with conviction. I will love you again, before all is done. I love you still. and 26 becomes 62 and that love will still be there, but my love is corrupted now. Your words are written to people like me, and now they bid me take my place at their side. I must be besieged and ravaged and sent into exile. Only then can the other books be written. The sequence needs blood. Vitality for vitality. Blood to blood. Life to life.
And I think I know the spell. And I think it has been cast. But the ground does not hold the necessary mana. Many have cast that spell and few have replenished the reserves of power. Where once bodies were thrown, deprived of their hearts, from high monuments now there is begging... the urging that the blood was drawn for any reason that we can still discern. We not only avoid the sacrifices, but we refuse to acknowledge the longing that once guided our hands to carve the knives. It was there above us to be striven towards with surety and grace. But Eliot was right, it ends with a whimper, and that whimper has come to me quickly. I can't see that high, nor is there propulsion. The mana from the depleted ground will not give energy to the old incantations.
And I, who have chanted them without success, cannot tell if it's the earth who lacks the magic, or I who cannot pay the price for the energy to pulse through unworthy veins. I'm alone in the Stygian tower and the tomes now are only mighty volumes with lists of words that I cannot share. The words are memorized yet impossible. Babble collects on babble. My mind was in service to something that cannot be, and it has cost me more than i'm willing to continue to pay on the off chance that I'm right.
What's tangible lies in the other direction. The treasure goes to he who slays the dragon, not he who reasons that the dragon deserves the treasure more. Would that I could give my life for the magic. I can think of nothing greater than giving myself over so that the mana could once against nourish the ground for future magi. But I can't will that to happen. It wasn't persecution that zapped the bloom and vitality from Camelot, but a lethal blend of satisfaction and regret.
But whatever the case, no more. The tree has stood there too long, the mighty wood unlike the other wood. Can I discern no simply on a promise? No. I will eat the fruit and kiss the snake. Then I hope that I can once again say the magic with conviction. I will love you again, before all is done. I love you still. and 26 becomes 62 and that love will still be there, but my love is corrupted now. Your words are written to people like me, and now they bid me take my place at their side. I must be besieged and ravaged and sent into exile. Only then can the other books be written. The sequence needs blood. Vitality for vitality. Blood to blood. Life to life.
posted by Roland at 9:05 PM
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