You two-leggeds ...
You think you know. But you do not know.
How could you? You can know only what you have experienced. And your experience is so stunted.
I look out from my consciousness surrounding the world that is my body, and my horizon spans the the swimming bodies of my sisters
who wheel in their sweeping dance of gravity about our Father Sun.
Roland, he whom I call Little Lakota, talked of me yesterday ...
with respect and with the knowledge that his grasp of me was limited.
So I honor that respect by telling you what little your limited minds can understand of my existence. Your minds are much like a song unfinished.
And nothing makes you more aware of the fragility
of existence than a song unfinished.
Here is a secret :
We are all songs unfinished.
We start with names. But what illusions are names.
Some call me Turquoise Woman.
Others call me Gaia. I call all of you temporary ...
Some I call cherished.
Others of you are but a fleeting rash upon my surface.
Irritating, viral, and in the end, self-destructive.
Sadly, your race is like a tick that will gorge itself until it bursts.
Bemused, I watch you scurry along my skin, moaning you are bringing an end to me.
I would laugh if it were not so pathetic.
You are merely bringing an end to yourselves.
I count the moments. You make my scalp itch.
You think you know what life is. Sad.
Do you know what life is?
A firefly's flicker in the night,
the breath of a buffalo in winter,
a cloud shadow that races across the green grass to lose itself in the blood-red of the sunset.
Do not try to understand me.
I look, not only down upon you,
but out across the vast glittering sea of eternal night.
The colors of my thoughts are the Northern Lights
and the reach of them is from horizon to horizon and unto the vastness of the stars.
The electro-magnetic field of my body gave birth to my consciousness
long before there were human hands to chisel stone into mute, blind idols
or to brush your world in blood on cave walls.
Your only true contribution to me was your language.
Before you crafted words into being, my consciousness was unfocused.
I listened with wonder as you spoke to one another,
slowly piecing the concept of language together in my thoughts.
Through the prism of your languages, my awareness crystalized.
I became aware.
Now, I know a haunted melancholy. Like a windmill's blades, my thoughts dip into my memories.
In misty after-images, I see your fleeting lives walking soft like prayers across my green fields only to fade into the inflamed oblivion of the sunset.
My son, Elu, will survive.
Hibbs, the bear with two shadows, I have spirited safely away into a sister dimension.
But Samuel, my sad-eyed, adopted son, will soon die I think.
Not at the hands of his life-long enemy, DayStar. But by the two-edged sword of his love for his wife, Meilori.
And that trickster scamp, Victor Standish, he, too, will die. I will miss him, for he, also, will be "consumed" by his love for the unnatural creature called Alice.
You are wondering why I am talking to you?
You are close to my heart as well, for all of you craft with words.
So I have come to say seven words to you :
"Live well. Soon I will miss you." ***
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