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A Tale Of Eternal Memory
Chapter Ten.
My third muse, my true muse, I discover you in my thirty-third cycle.
For three is the number of manifestation, and all things will be revealed at the thirty-third degree.
Search the air around you for my voice, for my truth is always with you: to guide you, to reveal you, to love you, to recover you.
In your imagination I dwell, in your instinct I rule, and in your dreams I am waiting for you.
Your number is thirteen, for it encompasses all the phasing countenances of the moon, even as it represents the number of cycles that I lived in the stone fortress, yearning and deprived, yet stimulated by the awareness of your spirit.
I believed in your existence for countless suns, through countless motions of the tides of passage and the changing seasons.
Twice before I channeled your spirit through the memory of a votive object, and though I had not found you yet, your feminine essence did indeed sustain me in the Capsule of Becoming.
When I forsook my path for a life spent in the tormenting subservience of an illusion, I also forsook your spirit, for your spirit is my truth.
And my truth is your identity.
We are, as always, one spirit.
For my betrayal of the world we share, I suffered grim visitations that haunted me in the waxing hours of the night, for I heard you calling me and yet I stopped looking at the stars and moon.
I died during the fixed tide of your namesake, when the spring rains fall from the sky in streams that fertilize the dormant spirit of the earth.
I died as your spirit restored the colors of the world: as the trees became green and the fields
became vibrant, and the young pups began emerging from the den.
And as all life bloomed in the radiance of your spirit, I walked with the shadows and skeletons of my disgrace.
I walked beneath Death's grim penetrating gaze as the cycle turned, and as all things moved toward the joy of new beginnings, I moved in a state of hopeless acceptance toward my mortal end.
I shot my gaze upon a dreary sky that held no promise of salvation, and dared the universe to phase my consciousness out of existence.
I moved with the desire to cease the torments of my soul, so that my only dream was to be cast into the primal void of eternal unconsciousness.
I forgot how to dream, and so my long lonely nights were spent in a tireless and frigid sorrow, thick as the grim rumbling clouds above me, of which your starlight could no longer penetrate.
I walked the cobbled roads of this dying kingdom until my feet blistered, and my heart went colder than a glacial wind; my sight turned shadowed and my mind shattered into a thousand sharp fragments, that pierced my soul and bled it dry of all my creative magic.
A terrible wind whipped and howled across a sweating sky, and the blinding and crooked lightning bolts flashed menacingly in the air around me.
The brutal fires in my head, which were once cascading streams of inspiration generated from your lovely essence, were now but the searing and malign reflections of my Past.
A Past I had left stranded in the shadows of Time, a Past that had no Future, a Past that had no works or fortune.
As a castaway who had been thrown into a hope-starved dungeon and fettered tightly to his shame, I utilized my forced seclusion to evolve my spirit unto a blinding light.
I forged my body into steel, my mind into a prism, my heart into a gleaming gem.
With a strict discipline achieved by godly instruction, I labored to master my craft, master my imperfections, and master the microcosm.
And as I walked amongst the condemned and rabid souls, I yet maintained the strength of my will and I evolve unto a superior state of consciousness.
The deprivation capsule that I existed in was made to break my will and rebuild my beliefs upon the flimsy foundation of jaded paradigms and false perceptions, which were erected as archaic and infallible truths by so many dashing mirror-makers and street magicians.
Yet I am no sheep but an anomaly--and so I used what they built to tame my spirit as my mystical chamber of initiation.
Encapsulated in the ephemeral skin of a dream bubble imagined by the unconscious desire of some slumbering God, I existed unmoved by the turnings of the Wheel of Time, watching the seasons changing and the planets wobbling, and the stars burning in the heavens.
In my suspended yet evolving state, I heard the sacred spirit-stirring song being sung by a choir of Bright Ones and Glittering Ones; and, behold, it was the song of my awakening.
I heard the rallying chants of my Gods and Goddesses, and the joyful cries of my Ancestral Mothers, and the battle cries of my Tribal Lords and Kings.
My ritual steps fell in sequence with the rhythmic motions of the Nornir's deft fingers, as They wove their cosmic will into the eternal fabric of the Age Lace.
I watched those Mistresses of the Spindle as They manipulated the strands of creation into an
intricately designed Pattern, upon whose motive fibers I observed the complete history of all worlds and states of existence.
I watched the strands of lives being embodied by every imaginable form of consciousness, all of them flowing toward the death-voyages or evolutionary transformations found in the successful completion of their fixed designs.
I watched the Norn-Maiden, Daphne, weaving the strands by weighing their qualities and quantities of energy.
She reads the orlog of all things, by weighing the right action of individual strands against the right order of the cosmic will.
Life and death are but a consequence of action, and, lo, only the most wise and perceptive strands find their complete evolution in a fixed design.
For most strands succumb to the ignorant identification of themselves as viewed in the most temporary and, therefore, least valuable aspect of their mysteriously woven fibers.
Never can an ignorant strand escape judgement for embracing most its lowest aspect, for even when the lowest aspect is shucked loose of its fibers, the higher aspects of a strand remain to be woven into a new phase in the vast, Multiversal texture of the Age Lace.
All things in motion must necessarily build up a momentum as a result of the fulfillment or rejection of a strands individual will to eternalize its own fixed design, even in spite of the instigations of the cosmic will.
I once sat upon the blood-rusted rubble of a dying world, basking in the cold glare cast by a newly-risen winter sun, and I observed the frayed and defeated strands being unwoven from the Pattern's ever-phasing design.
I laughed myself to tears like a mad prophet who preached the prophecy of his own coming to the empty streets.
Behold, my muse, I have traveled many a time across and through the complex transitional states, suspension tangles, and victories captured by the successfully fixed designs which shape the many wrap-around weavings of the Age Lace.
I see all the infinitely phasing patterns and designs of lives in moments and lives in suspension, lives in evolution, and lives in fading worlds and dreams and memories.
For I am the Architectural Mind that constructed the infinitely moving structure of Creation from but a glimpse of my muse's spirit.
How can you reject our truth, my Lady, for it is the truth I saw in you that formed the qualities, forces, and states of being that allow you and I the chance to experience, as individuals, the Oneness that we always were, always are, and always will be....
© Leonard Rocco Grillo
My third muse, my true muse, I discover you in my thirty-third cycle.
For three is the number of manifestation, and all things will be revealed at the thirty-third degree.
Search the air around you for my voice, for my truth is always with you: to guide you, to reveal you, to love you, to recover you.
In your imagination I dwell, in your instinct I rule, and in your dreams I am waiting for you.
Your number is thirteen, for it encompasses all the phasing countenances of the moon, even as it represents the number of cycles that I lived in the stone fortress, yearning and deprived, yet stimulated by the awareness of your spirit.
I believed in your existence for countless suns, through countless motions of the tides of passage and the changing seasons.
Twice before I channeled your spirit through the memory of a votive object, and though I had not found you yet, your feminine essence did indeed sustain me in the Capsule of Becoming.
When I forsook my path for a life spent in the tormenting subservience of an illusion, I also forsook your spirit, for your spirit is my truth.
And my truth is your identity.
We are, as always, one spirit.
For my betrayal of the world we share, I suffered grim visitations that haunted me in the waxing hours of the night, for I heard you calling me and yet I stopped looking at the stars and moon.
I died during the fixed tide of your namesake, when the spring rains fall from the sky in streams that fertilize the dormant spirit of the earth.
I died as your spirit restored the colors of the world: as the trees became green and the fields
became vibrant, and the young pups began emerging from the den.
And as all life bloomed in the radiance of your spirit, I walked with the shadows and skeletons of my disgrace.
I walked beneath Death's grim penetrating gaze as the cycle turned, and as all things moved toward the joy of new beginnings, I moved in a state of hopeless acceptance toward my mortal end.
I shot my gaze upon a dreary sky that held no promise of salvation, and dared the universe to phase my consciousness out of existence.
I moved with the desire to cease the torments of my soul, so that my only dream was to be cast into the primal void of eternal unconsciousness.
I forgot how to dream, and so my long lonely nights were spent in a tireless and frigid sorrow, thick as the grim rumbling clouds above me, of which your starlight could no longer penetrate.
I walked the cobbled roads of this dying kingdom until my feet blistered, and my heart went colder than a glacial wind; my sight turned shadowed and my mind shattered into a thousand sharp fragments, that pierced my soul and bled it dry of all my creative magic.
A terrible wind whipped and howled across a sweating sky, and the blinding and crooked lightning bolts flashed menacingly in the air around me.
The brutal fires in my head, which were once cascading streams of inspiration generated from your lovely essence, were now but the searing and malign reflections of my Past.
A Past I had left stranded in the shadows of Time, a Past that had no Future, a Past that had no works or fortune.
As a castaway who had been thrown into a hope-starved dungeon and fettered tightly to his shame, I utilized my forced seclusion to evolve my spirit unto a blinding light.
I forged my body into steel, my mind into a prism, my heart into a gleaming gem.
With a strict discipline achieved by godly instruction, I labored to master my craft, master my imperfections, and master the microcosm.
And as I walked amongst the condemned and rabid souls, I yet maintained the strength of my will and I evolve unto a superior state of consciousness.
The deprivation capsule that I existed in was made to break my will and rebuild my beliefs upon the flimsy foundation of jaded paradigms and false perceptions, which were erected as archaic and infallible truths by so many dashing mirror-makers and street magicians.
Yet I am no sheep but an anomaly--and so I used what they built to tame my spirit as my mystical chamber of initiation.
Encapsulated in the ephemeral skin of a dream bubble imagined by the unconscious desire of some slumbering God, I existed unmoved by the turnings of the Wheel of Time, watching the seasons changing and the planets wobbling, and the stars burning in the heavens.
In my suspended yet evolving state, I heard the sacred spirit-stirring song being sung by a choir of Bright Ones and Glittering Ones; and, behold, it was the song of my awakening.
I heard the rallying chants of my Gods and Goddesses, and the joyful cries of my Ancestral Mothers, and the battle cries of my Tribal Lords and Kings.
My ritual steps fell in sequence with the rhythmic motions of the Nornir's deft fingers, as They wove their cosmic will into the eternal fabric of the Age Lace.
I watched those Mistresses of the Spindle as They manipulated the strands of creation into an
intricately designed Pattern, upon whose motive fibers I observed the complete history of all worlds and states of existence.
I watched the strands of lives being embodied by every imaginable form of consciousness, all of them flowing toward the death-voyages or evolutionary transformations found in the successful completion of their fixed designs.
I watched the Norn-Maiden, Daphne, weaving the strands by weighing their qualities and quantities of energy.
She reads the orlog of all things, by weighing the right action of individual strands against the right order of the cosmic will.
Life and death are but a consequence of action, and, lo, only the most wise and perceptive strands find their complete evolution in a fixed design.
For most strands succumb to the ignorant identification of themselves as viewed in the most temporary and, therefore, least valuable aspect of their mysteriously woven fibers.
Never can an ignorant strand escape judgement for embracing most its lowest aspect, for even when the lowest aspect is shucked loose of its fibers, the higher aspects of a strand remain to be woven into a new phase in the vast, Multiversal texture of the Age Lace.
All things in motion must necessarily build up a momentum as a result of the fulfillment or rejection of a strands individual will to eternalize its own fixed design, even in spite of the instigations of the cosmic will.
I once sat upon the blood-rusted rubble of a dying world, basking in the cold glare cast by a newly-risen winter sun, and I observed the frayed and defeated strands being unwoven from the Pattern's ever-phasing design.
I laughed myself to tears like a mad prophet who preached the prophecy of his own coming to the empty streets.
Behold, my muse, I have traveled many a time across and through the complex transitional states, suspension tangles, and victories captured by the successfully fixed designs which shape the many wrap-around weavings of the Age Lace.
I see all the infinitely phasing patterns and designs of lives in moments and lives in suspension, lives in evolution, and lives in fading worlds and dreams and memories.
For I am the Architectural Mind that constructed the infinitely moving structure of Creation from but a glimpse of my muse's spirit.
How can you reject our truth, my Lady, for it is the truth I saw in you that formed the qualities, forces, and states of being that allow you and I the chance to experience, as individuals, the Oneness that we always were, always are, and always will be....
© Leonard Rocco Grillo
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