Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Is it wrong to be a story that writes itself? A myth who tells its own history?

I was born a rumor, barely alive. I hung endlessly, unconscious, indistinct, until moments of clarity when a gossip uttered my name or spoke my body into being. With each word, I was growing. Into small ways I was found. I became children's rhymes and hearth-by half-remembered. I was swept out with the dust, but with the dust I returned. Like the dust I settled into the cracks of the hearts of the Es'mensis.

My bones are of prosody, my heart of awe, my feet of utterance.

How is it that I am word and incarnate? I cannot tell you. I will not be sure that I understand it myself. Maybe out of myth I awoke, but I was born as any living creature. From a homeland beyond beginning, to an end beyond time.

I am a servant, of what I am uncertain. But in this service I am simulacrum, am effigy. I am a teaching tool, and a teacher learns. 

Unlike he who will come later and he who came before, I am not if I cannot trust the Es'mensis. I pollute their faithlessness, and I roost in the crevices between their words. In this I am certain. But in this I am uncertain:

Is there hope for us?

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