For the Man Nostalgic
To remember is the blackest of habits.
Perhaps it is because it is inescapably reflexive, perhaps it is our capacity for nihilism that makes it so deeply moving. Regardless the reason for its splendid profanity, know the cloying images that crackle behind your eyes for what they are: those militant henchmen of the twin specters, to Regret and to Cherish--the head and handle of the hammer which bears down on us, prostrate on the anvil, darning and heeling us until there is something to be recognized. We are the fire-forged sum of our Memory.
There is nothing to be done for Mnemsosyne, that placid bitch. Neither ritual to be done nor altar to be prepared, no prayer is worthy to make her relent. She is, ever, beautiful and stoic. Thus I can scarcely placate your yearning. I can only promise you will be driven by what drives to what is right, if only eons after desired. People like you and I do not rest. We search. And so, rapt in your confusion, you will stumble onto what satisfies, of this I assure you. It is in your basest nature; divining is your gift. I do not insist it will be on any present hearth that your thirst should be allayed, but accept that it is possible. From wherever it comes, it will come.
Until then, we have our regret and our things to cherish, and we lay beneath the stroke of the smith. Waiting.
Perhaps it is because it is inescapably reflexive, perhaps it is our capacity for nihilism that makes it so deeply moving. Regardless the reason for its splendid profanity, know the cloying images that crackle behind your eyes for what they are: those militant henchmen of the twin specters, to Regret and to Cherish--the head and handle of the hammer which bears down on us, prostrate on the anvil, darning and heeling us until there is something to be recognized. We are the fire-forged sum of our Memory.
There is nothing to be done for Mnemsosyne, that placid bitch. Neither ritual to be done nor altar to be prepared, no prayer is worthy to make her relent. She is, ever, beautiful and stoic. Thus I can scarcely placate your yearning. I can only promise you will be driven by what drives to what is right, if only eons after desired. People like you and I do not rest. We search. And so, rapt in your confusion, you will stumble onto what satisfies, of this I assure you. It is in your basest nature; divining is your gift. I do not insist it will be on any present hearth that your thirst should be allayed, but accept that it is possible. From wherever it comes, it will come.
Until then, we have our regret and our things to cherish, and we lay beneath the stroke of the smith. Waiting.