Forty years from now, when they burn the witches at their gluten-free stakes, the punishment will not be for the blasphemy they spread, but rather for the truths. Engrained in our natural state of being, back to the earth from whence we came, the terror of subterfuge brought on by alignment will be far too much too bear.
And they’ll get there with the numbers. Because the numbers are truth and music and math the only universal languages. Music built upon math. Upon variances and intervals which vibrate the sound of organs within our own organs to send us to rapture.
Sing out. Stamp feet. Crush the dust of yesterday between your fat toes as it mixes with sweat and rain and becomes the mud from which we may fashion new masks.
The space above us is space. But not the empty kind of space one yearns to surround them in their bubble of safe distance in societal games. Rather, space is anything but empty. Billions upon billions of bits and pieces called stars and planets and comets and galaxies, all there hovering above us and below us. Engulfing the tiny little speck of dirt and stone and DNA we call home. If it were not for the space within space, we’d be crushed. And perhaps we are. Crushed and jellied unable to expand to the potential of which our true destiny promises.
A witch or an alien. Numbers or music. Holes in the ground and holes in space. Magic and logic and places we can become lost. They surround us all, and we invest the electromagnetic pulses in our flesh we foolishly name a soul into finding meaning and wholeness through it all.
Energy is neither created nor destroyed. It is the song that never ends.
Blackspire granted no gifts but panic and grief. Gifts which I would gladly return, had I the receipt.
Found, but unacknowledged. Unwanted.
Though I hid, I knew it to be in vain. For they would find me.
Oh yes, they would find me.
They did find me.
But I am unwanted.
The hole grows bigger as I resume my excavation. What once gave birth to life I now know to be nothing more than a trick. A ruse. A false positive.
There’s more down deeper. Down past the caves. Past the rivers. Past the molten core.
Somewhere, down there, someone’s having a dream.
Am I the dream?
What then happens to the dreamer when I awake?
Penitence and desire. Goodnight sweet prince.