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[ENDLESS DREAMS] all the world is all i am
Aug. 8th, 2020 08:50 pmThe Endless...Dream, Desire, Death, Delirium, Destiny, Despair...and Devotion.
The Prodigal no longer had a name among them, hadn't for countless ages of man. They were left but seven of them, and very nearly they were left but six when Destruction left them.
Devotion and Destruction, the second pair of twins among the Endless--two sides of one coin, the building up and the razing to the ground. The transmuting of dedication and worship into obsession and hate...there could not be one without the other, and when the Prodigal departed there nearly wasn't.
Yet Devotion alone bid him farewell. Kissed him, embraced him, and smiled as he departed...right through the terrible wounds left behind where one brother's cheek touched another, leaving Devotion forever scarred by the loss of his other half.
From then on, there was always that hesitation. When one named the Endless, Devotion almost wasn't. He was the afterthought, the trailing thought lagging behind his kin.
In the galleries of the Endless, his sigil had been dark for centuries: the athame black and lifeless, the sacred tool of sacrifice and offering a stark reminder that Devotion had remained, but only barely.
He had not abandoned his post, he had not denied his twin the happiness he sought: but if he could not have his compliment, he would have no one.
Over time, the temple that was his realm fell into a state of disarray. No longer tended by the priests and shamans, it gave way to chaos and sensuality. The dedication of worship began to fail, and the pledge of the artist to his craft drew Devotion away from the darkness and back towards something resembling warmth and joy. The way that artists consumed themselves reminded him of his brother, their passion and their dedication were clean air in his lungs...
He had always preferred the company of creative spirits anyway. The crafty tricksters, the muses, the mystics...where spirituality waned, creativity thrived, and it was a healing thing for Devotion to bask in, to throw himself into--to gather into himself and cherish.
He gave his disfigurement to them--the masks of comedy and tragedy. He gave his influence to them, rapture and existential ecstasy in their fleeting, eternal, frenetic creations. He gave his realm to them, bringing them into his realm, his den, his salon on occasion to teach and encourage, to allow their gifts to flourish.
He gave and gave and gave of himself--and for a time, he almost forgot he was lonely. Almost.
Then he decided to wander Paris, to peer into the Opera Populaire--and he heard her.
The voice was young, untrained, unsure--but it rang out with a purity that wounded him so sweetly, with a quality he was not certain he had ever heard. Devotion to the act, devotion of the spirit as the voice lifted to praise the Lord God on high...
Devotion swiftly found himself in the shadows, dressed for the region and the time in trousers and a loose shirt with frilled sleeves. His disfigurement, he hid behind the simple white mask that gave birth to the marks of the theater, and he stood, enraptured, as the sweet voice of a young girl wove its way through his essence.
And, when it was over, the void its absence left was harrowing.
"...brava." he breathed without meaning to, nearly caught in a swoon from the pleasure of it. "Brava...bravissima..."
The Prodigal no longer had a name among them, hadn't for countless ages of man. They were left but seven of them, and very nearly they were left but six when Destruction left them.
Devotion and Destruction, the second pair of twins among the Endless--two sides of one coin, the building up and the razing to the ground. The transmuting of dedication and worship into obsession and hate...there could not be one without the other, and when the Prodigal departed there nearly wasn't.
Yet Devotion alone bid him farewell. Kissed him, embraced him, and smiled as he departed...right through the terrible wounds left behind where one brother's cheek touched another, leaving Devotion forever scarred by the loss of his other half.
From then on, there was always that hesitation. When one named the Endless, Devotion almost wasn't. He was the afterthought, the trailing thought lagging behind his kin.
In the galleries of the Endless, his sigil had been dark for centuries: the athame black and lifeless, the sacred tool of sacrifice and offering a stark reminder that Devotion had remained, but only barely.
He had not abandoned his post, he had not denied his twin the happiness he sought: but if he could not have his compliment, he would have no one.
Over time, the temple that was his realm fell into a state of disarray. No longer tended by the priests and shamans, it gave way to chaos and sensuality. The dedication of worship began to fail, and the pledge of the artist to his craft drew Devotion away from the darkness and back towards something resembling warmth and joy. The way that artists consumed themselves reminded him of his brother, their passion and their dedication were clean air in his lungs...
He had always preferred the company of creative spirits anyway. The crafty tricksters, the muses, the mystics...where spirituality waned, creativity thrived, and it was a healing thing for Devotion to bask in, to throw himself into--to gather into himself and cherish.
He gave his disfigurement to them--the masks of comedy and tragedy. He gave his influence to them, rapture and existential ecstasy in their fleeting, eternal, frenetic creations. He gave his realm to them, bringing them into his realm, his den, his salon on occasion to teach and encourage, to allow their gifts to flourish.
He gave and gave and gave of himself--and for a time, he almost forgot he was lonely. Almost.
Then he decided to wander Paris, to peer into the Opera Populaire--and he heard her.
The voice was young, untrained, unsure--but it rang out with a purity that wounded him so sweetly, with a quality he was not certain he had ever heard. Devotion to the act, devotion of the spirit as the voice lifted to praise the Lord God on high...
Devotion swiftly found himself in the shadows, dressed for the region and the time in trousers and a loose shirt with frilled sleeves. His disfigurement, he hid behind the simple white mask that gave birth to the marks of the theater, and he stood, enraptured, as the sweet voice of a young girl wove its way through his essence.
And, when it was over, the void its absence left was harrowing.
"...brava." he breathed without meaning to, nearly caught in a swoon from the pleasure of it. "Brava...bravissima..."
