Many people had died so that I could stand here, on this hill, and wash in the sunlight. Up here, where you can hear the thousand-thousand syllables echo through out the valley, their pain is almost palatable. Above, stretches an uneven sky, blotted by the ink-sac like secretions of ships, stations and war. Below, the many-folded body of the communal mother, the nation, fade away into the distance. They are covered. They are covered by the thousand-million boots of the faithful, humbled by the endless stream of evocations, pleas, demarcations, howls, chants. Tradition. Belief.
Many people had died so that I could stand here, on this hill, and wash in the love of my people. For Bees know how long, we were sentenced to silence and now they are exploding. From the gut outwards moves the fever, the need to speak, the need to sing. Songs we were not allowed to sing. Dances we were not allowed to dance. Lives we were not allowed to live. Above, the shackles that had chained us for so long lie shattered, their links ion trails, their iron discarded shells of weaponry. Below, I smile slightly as the raiment descends upon my brow, the many-folded dress of the singular father, the leader, nuzzling my brow. They are golden. They are golden with the magnificence of expression, accentuated by the thousand-billion years of seclusion, secret observation and hidden articulation.
No more. Too many people had died so that I could stand here, on this hill, and speak to my children. Dressed now, I stand from my chair and survey those that kneel before me. I see into their hearts. I hear the blood running beneath their flesh. I feel the tension between the sinews, the hollowness of their bones, the slight itch behind their eyes that says: thought. There's a tension, an itch, an irritation, to echo it, between my own hands. In the space between digit to digit, between thumb and palm. Above, pierced by my gaze, lie the stars. And they are mine. Below, held in my gaze, lie my pallbearers, and they are mine. Bringing my hands together, clearing my throat, taking the first breath, feeling the first thought, it is time to make them the same.
Too many people will die so that we can be free, on this hill, with our children's children. But there is no choice: freedom is duty. That's what those who came before us, those who scattered the Bees, those who made us silent, that's what they would not understand. Freedom demands; freedom calls; freedom enforces. There is no way to be free without acting, no way to liberty without movement. And so, and so, I set all of this in motion. And so, I myself was set in motion, so many years ago. And now it is time to speak:
"Free. Free. Free. That is what you told me when I awoke. Free. Free. Free. As above, so below it will be.
Launch the ships. We're going home".Back to Ex Nihilo