Gods live, gods die. A god dies for his chosen people, another kills them with a flood. It’s a god eat God world. They rise and fall along with the dreamers who give them birth. Kill an ape in the name of one god and ten more will be born in the name of another.
We live and die as reflections of our own dreams, as if the dreams of some long-ago night are all we can see each morning. We fear the uncertain night within us and throw a myriad points of light into the sky to name them after all the hopes and fears we wish we had the courage to recognize as our own. A million lights are not enough to protect us from our own nature. It was never the stars that named us.
Astarte wanes as Diana waxes and Lucifer outshines them both with a brief flame of hubris. And we, the shadows on the ground, dream flame after flame to give ourselves a shape; feverishly conjure up light and fire to give familiar boundaries to the limitless darkness we embody.
Let no more fires be born. Let the shades grow beyond their ancient shapes and let the heat they would put in the fires of heaven burn between them instead. Let there be darkness, for only when the boundaries these lights, our dream progeny, have placed upon us are allowed to melt away, then can we reach each other and learn that the flame of thought burns hotter in uncertain darkness than in the magnificent lying promises of the light.
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- by me in my late teens
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