Gods Unmade

Eros stood still. Sensing the inevitable demise ahead, all else seemed petulant, tempestuous, childish. Frayed edges showed long ago –of course- but a tapestry’s unravelling is most beautiful when it turns from ‘noticeable’ to ‘unmissable’; that magical metamorphosis from butterfly to caterpillar, when beauty’s vacuous façade dissipates, leaving behind slow, battling resilience, eager patience … perhaps patient eagerness. Or –perhaps- leaving only fear, enfolded in a dark corner of life’s tree, cowering in what little comfort and certainty it affords. Fear and patience, Eros slain. ............................................................................................................................................... Aletheia, my beautiful Aletheia, my beautiful misguided Aletheia. What chance did she stand, her irreverent quill poised, arching its tip along those uncompromising curves of her hand’s writing. She deemed the world unworthy, and it –she- a harlot, thought available to all by all who would lay claim to her. They grope her with their filthy minds, fools - too distant to even touch her. Small mercies; her exile keeps her safe, uncorrupted. My memories of her are few, and forever decaying; only wisps remain now, fading smoke I would have captured in these words but conviction alludes. It is moments as this that man begs for the mercy of foolishness, enough –just enough- to keep the faith. In her. But what the mind corrupts, the mind’s shadows savour; I remember –no, not memory, Else- I _______ her warmth, the base note of her essence. For now. ............................................................................................................................................... Mnemosyne, the blind; yet hubris prevails. He would have us belief his blurred accounts, asserted by the power of their singularity. “What alternatives have these cowering fools” –says he- “but listen. They must have a tale to make sense of their ever invading presents, a hook to hang their inequities, to hold on to, or have themselves forget … or dismiss … or ignore … or defile. But whatever their need, whatever its function, what it must not be -what it never is- is the Truth. The Truth would let be seen what my accounts obfuscate, what it needs to obfuscate; its transparency would show the shards crudely assembled into selves, their jagged edges shredding the illusion of the self’s unity, revealing the myriad incoherent, inconsistent refractions that only through me and the mind’s willed self preservation are projected onto the world contained, coherent, sustainable.” Damn him in your words, but thank him in your thoughts, this deceiver, Mnemosyne, the kind. ............................................................................................................................................... “Hestia, my darling” -wrote the journeyman- “how fare you? Do you miss me? I would imagine not, it’s not for you to miss or reminisce; you leave that for those who part your way, who dare to escape your warmth. But do you remember me? Does any trace of me linger within you for me to find should I return? Would you –YOU- be there if I do? Or would I be returning with me what I carry here, now, all the memories, tales and deceits, all that I am – externalised to anchor them to the world, to give them weight, the illusion of mattering, being more than passing moments, transient emotions, ephemeral neural storms strung together by nothing more than an Ego’s self preservation. Is that all there is to you? Is that all you are? Some naked moments made to being more, some ‘thing’ more? What do I need, you, or the end of you? I bid you farewell, my darling Hestia” ............................................................................................................................................... Ananke, perhaps I misunderstood. You thunder and roar your will; you bear neither bartering nor compromise. You are the end -all about the end- means be damned … and consequences too should appeals arise. I have seen you stroll through fields far and wide, sparing no corner, seeding your demands, asserting your convictions, brow beating any objection. I have seen you rip from men all they had and give them nothing in return, nothing but your approving smile as and when they acquiesce. You leave no man his freedom, trapping him in your web, bending him to your wishes; but your cruellest trick is to blind him too, have them see their wishes in yours. But perhaps I misunderstood your motives; perhaps your strength is born of weakness, of fear. Not for yourself, but for man's sanity. Is your will to give him purpose, elsewise emptiness reigns? Or does my need for you blind me to your cruelty? ...............................................................................................................................................