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Pagan Fire

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Get Busy Living. [Apr. 27th, 2004|07:41 pm]
Pagan Fire


[I'm thinking in |fierce]
[Singing |whirclicking.]

We shall have a parade tonight of wisps and dreams, flying over our houses like demons unleashed. Dance upon your roof and sing with them, hear their rich and terrible cries and......

We need a parade, children. This world gives us tickertape and popcorn and expects us to be content, but no, we will never find happiness in the feeling of a sharp corn husk between our teeth, poking its way into our brains like some errant virus. We can not paint the world full of colors with such a small and insignificant paintbrush as tickertape allows us. We limit ourselves to accept what we are given, because we are told that to have and to hold are all a person will ever need.

I will never be happy with just that. When I was a tiny, curly-haired sprite, all I thought that the world would ask of me was a kindness here and there, a reel of tickertape every so often to adorn some grand ideal, and the ommission of certain thoughts and sightings beyond the normal way of the world. Did I see fairies in those woods which I played in? Did I turn wolf every night under a moon, in a land far away from machines and concrete? Did I find myself in every flick of minnow, every frantic scrambling of crawfish, under every wet and mud-baptised rock? Was I monkey to the trees, climbing high into their embrace to survey that which my human hands itched to protect? Was I not captain, king, and lord of every vague person placing themselves upon the soil of my childhood wilderland?

Would you even care about the magic I found there?

Ask yourself why this way of living that we wake up to every morning demands that we forgoe imagination. We prize our ability to dream, to fantisize, to reach beyond what we already have, to ignore limits. So why do we live within them?

What will remain of you when you are no longer breathing this sweet, intoxicated air drifting, pushed around over terra firma? Some footprint upon a dirt road? The imprint of your reclining form upon a grassy meadow where you discovered how bright a person's eyes can shine back at you in the timeless starlight? Will we pass something of worth of ourselves on to our children, or will they only know us through a sense of duty to a heritage they only vaguely understand? What are we living for, if not something beyond time, beyond form, beyond all the knowledge and invention this existance has to offer?

This American country says it thrives on the industry of its people. On the backs of its people. Persons whose whole lives our leaders dismiss as simply being another pack animal. Why are they not afraid we will seek more? We are told to have ambition, to have wants and desires centered around having and holding something close. But in a hundred years, what will remain of that possesion but an old and tired memory's remnant. We create industry to give ourselves food, and comfort. We should imagine for the same purpose, for there are too many starving in this world for something they can not identify. They were never told they should or even could hunger for it.

We shall have a holiday, an eternal holiday, a call to living that wakes even the demons and djinns within these hallowed hills cryptic streams. Let those who can not face more than what they have, sit by the road and throw tickertape for us, and impale their soft gums upon sharp corn husks until it stacks one on the other and lances the brain. Let them cheer for us, as we march into something we can not define or outline, but only feel. Let us live, and know that there is more to this time than the daily sound of someone else's dreaming.