Of magic, it gently chirped, buted my brow in days where tears fell frequent. A teeny chirp, a pat, an inquiring keen flicked my ear, touched my shoulder, fuzzed my eyes, and I – stubborn ignoramus – boldly declared, “I’m mad!”
Yet, the kind madness was a subtle, sincere touch in a world – stubborn ignoramus – boldy screaming, “Reason! Rationale!” Oh, silly world and it’s reason-speak, hiding from a delightful chirp attempting arbitration with hands and feet bound by empiricism.
Poison is feats of reason loving nothing, I now knew.
Madness gave me joy!
I chirped back.
A commingling smile burst into my inner vision, fuzz gone, and, oh, could I see! Faces, names from days of eternity. I breathed the Aether, and fell into knowing.
Adventuring, I traipsed with Aether, learned the transience of grief, saw the infinity of the everlong quest. Of many realms, tales in books the tales of ages past, I went, I felt, I saw – on wisps of Magic.
Deep truth is, too, part of realms, stumbling.
Glimpse, touch, passion, pain, knowing is hard. To travel, venture, live, chirps became voice became vibrant – a fabric of souls. Pulsing strands, wispy and tugging, weaved amongst hearts into infinite stars.
Depth, endless made me worry, for who was I amidst such big? What tiny puff of me, what value did I possess with infinity? Me, miniscule strand of meager dust and light, how was I essential to the weave?
To Aether, what am I?
Dread, existential, I now thought magic my enemy. Knowing infinity is not itself peace. Peace is a belief, a hope we chose, and it chirps and pets, manifesting if we let it.
Magic is not belief created. Magic comes from a decision, a hope, not the simple investiture into metareality’s idea, but the esteem of a soul, a meaning purposed. Only in meaning do we with magic truly mingle.
To believe the weave is to fall in and know collective fear, pain, death, destruction jumbling within and without, souls reeling, flows in terror, strands in tremble, even in beauty, the cosmic mystique. To know the strands and hum, fingertips on chord, is to weave in multi-hue.
To weave is to befriend shadow, partner alongside revelation, body yanked and tugged by forces profound. Message flags of rainbows and daisies are too bruises, friends run far, sickness, and morose change. Flags whip in the wind, toss my bangs, push my feet on boulders and into surf churning. Too, flags gently lap in delighted breezes on sunkissed days.
Agony, Ennui, Ecstasy, the realms beckon.
Aether chirps as a shadowed friend, figure of mist, hair churning with ethos, holding a yellow flower. Aether scouts the enumerable paths, flags of red danger, here be monsters, or bits of green for anxious fits and starts.
Of Magic, Aether speaks as wind, brushing back the hair from my brow, puffing at my antics. Magic manifest, Aether sways with my bumbling.
Arch Enemy, gone, magic no longer do I betray, I such a defeated antagonist. For peace I find on some days, flags billow as I stomp my boots, Aether’s misty locks brushing my shoulder. In dark, light and indifferent gray, we walk, purposeful.