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What My Brother Taught Me
CE_Nex
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What did I give you?
Your face to wear, and your Heart to sunder.
What did you give me?
The truth. And it broke you mad.
What did you give them?
Them? You mean We. I set limits that We may cut water into shapes. So that We may remember temporal form in the formlessness.
Where did the Colors come from?
From the sea and sky, reflecting back onto one another. The pigments think themselves free, they are not. They think they are looking down at the sea, but they do not realize they are looking up at the sky. They are held fast by the warp and weft of Our tapestry.
Where did the Dark come from?
A lie I told. By itself, nothing can only be nothing. Betwixt Moons and Stars there is only Our gaping maw, the font of creatia in which beginnings are told but never heard. Its tragedy is to be bereft of an ever after.
What is the World?
A word for you and for me. It stands prolix and concise. Myriad and singular. It is everything and nothing. And beyond it lies a blank page waiting to be filled by innumerable hands. Such is the cruel beauty of loneliness.
Who are the makers?
Children anon possibility. Such is their great miracle: to be framed by their own bones. That they may be an island onto themselves. So they may be anchored in our hysteria and not know fear. Theirs is the gift of asking questions and finding answers.
What is our Doom?
Yours is to love me. Mine is to never have been here. Come now, do not frown. Smile at your reflection.
What is our Hope?
To make of dreams and reality a duality. The world begins with I.
Edited by ZOS_Kevin on November 7, 2024 11:09AM Your face to wear, and your Heart to sunder.
What did you give me?
The truth. And it broke you mad.
What did you give them?
Them? You mean We. I set limits that We may cut water into shapes. So that We may remember temporal form in the formlessness.
Where did the Colors come from?
From the sea and sky, reflecting back onto one another. The pigments think themselves free, they are not. They think they are looking down at the sea, but they do not realize they are looking up at the sky. They are held fast by the warp and weft of Our tapestry.
Where did the Dark come from?
A lie I told. By itself, nothing can only be nothing. Betwixt Moons and Stars there is only Our gaping maw, the font of creatia in which beginnings are told but never heard. Its tragedy is to be bereft of an ever after.
What is the World?
A word for you and for me. It stands prolix and concise. Myriad and singular. It is everything and nothing. And beyond it lies a blank page waiting to be filled by innumerable hands. Such is the cruel beauty of loneliness.
Who are the makers?
Children anon possibility. Such is their great miracle: to be framed by their own bones. That they may be an island onto themselves. So they may be anchored in our hysteria and not know fear. Theirs is the gift of asking questions and finding answers.
What is our Doom?
Yours is to love me. Mine is to never have been here. Come now, do not frown. Smile at your reflection.
What is our Hope?
To make of dreams and reality a duality. The world begins with I.
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