From the "heiros" series

 

Dear Dion:

        I know it's difficult.

         So enrapt were you with the full blown beauty of the bloom in your hand that you didn't even sense the eruption in the sidewalk that turned you ass over heels onto the pavement. Luckily, a mattress was there to break your fall.

         Later, against the rare splendor of a late summer evening as we walked down Vermont Avenue to the Metro, you began to limp. The frustrated, taut lines in your face betrayed the signs: your molting wings, your silvered hair, your aching joints.

         My dear, despite your six or seven aeons of experience... this is the longest... so far... you've been somatic.

         I blame this age. Technology has redefined the human condition. More than a century ago, anyone over the age of 35 should have been dead. Within three generations, the age of consent will be what the age of retirement is now. It's tempting to swallow the hype; we can be immortal, we can be forever young, which, in a sense, is true, but not in the way corporate shills wish us to believe.

         There is relief in your expression. You tell me the pain that reverberates through your body is a welcome reminder that you are alive, present, and that you still have a purpose.

         You remind me of those statues I've seen in the Louvre, marbled sentinels marked by the veined cartography of Time whose bodhisattic expressions await the day Chance will push each one off their pedestals to smash against the floor and release the souls within.

         Be at peace. Meanwhile, I've left unguents and analgesics by your bed. I'll mark these happenings with my digital quill while you slumber, dreaming of roses and of the abyss...

 

Always your...

 

Sesa

 

 

copyright 2007 m. lecrivain