My little cove in the bay of insanity.

[thought_on_a_wind]

Aloft these endless seas depths unfathomable, and around this little isle I pace thoughtfully, restlessly, and mindlessly all in the same moment. This isle of mine has a shrine in the southern most quarter devoted to the ancestors of both the clan on my Dad's side, and the presidents on my Mom's side.

This isle is all of the abandon of a man that has purged the depths of insanity and found a warm cozy nook there as a summer home... Well, I suppose it could be a winter home too, or maybe it isn't... Either way, at the northern most tip one will find my humble cottage with fire pit, a continual supply of my favorite Scotch (Isle Of Jura at the moment), and an anti-time device established for the pause and contemplation.

In the middle is where I lay all the tools a madman is likened to have. A pen, foremost as it is increasingly easy to record ones madness when they have the proper writing utensil with a tad bit of paper. Where is my altar for the Gods/Goddesses? The world is the altar, and enjoying it respectfully is more than enough to show ones respect and reverence (if ever there was some to have).

Anything else on this island other than what I already mentioned changes as my thoughts moods change, and as such my company usually changes whenever it wants (this also depends on how many [if any] of my extra personalities want to make themselves known]).

What kind of devotions, chants, prayers, meditations and the such go on on my island? Depends on what the road says...

More to come as I start to get used to the idea of a virtual sacred space.

[thought_on_a_wind]

In the beginning the ancients were new. In the end those that are considered new will be ancients. In between we are left to discern who is an ancient, and who is new, however easy this task seems to be, there is inherent a problem spawned by the human condition.

Namely, it boils down to experience, someone who is old and does not accept change is newer than a seeker that accepts the current circumstances as they occur. The reason for this assumption hinges on the acceptance that when a pool of water or air stagnates all it spawns are viruses and parasites that just want to attach to others, sucking the life energies out of their victims.

In other words, someone who is an ancient, but does not continually strive to learn is as detrimental to the health of others as someone that knows not what they do.

[thought_on_a_wind]

A note to the spirits I've not seen in a while potrayed in prose in the center of my ever-changing isle.

In times past I have neglected to accept those things you've done for me.
These are the things that I rarely stop to see.
In between a rock and a hard place.
You have always been by my side to save me from disgrace.
In happenstance that is a matter of my opinion.
You have saved me from the gaping maw that is oblivion.
How can one such as I begin to express.
The amount of devotion you've had in my progress.
All I can promise is to start to learn.
From those hints you have promised I will some way or other discern.

3rd eye so long ago I so forcefully shut.
Will once again be opened I swear to thee.
Oh great Guide my teacher John.
Oh Great Ancestor to all that I've learned whose name I utter not.
Oh Wonderful companion of the spirit who has on more than one occasion protected me in battles of defense.
I have once again awakened (if naught but a second)
And once again devote my attentions to realms obscure
To walk the road once again.
The Tao as described as the paths blazed anew and old as time itself in the same breath, I beseech to learn once again what I've already known.

Blessed be to all the spirits in my life that have helped me.
Your names be forgotten, but your actions forever remembered.

[thought_on_a_wind]

The heart that beats upon a chair of apathy and regret.
Loathing ever the moment to be set back in motion.
So long ago I accepted the role of eccentric.
So long ago I accepted my insanity.
That most crucial of powers in my universe.
With it comes strength.
With it comes sight.
With it comes knowledge.
Yet at the cost of analyzing fact from fiction...
It still demands respect because of the devotion of will that can be had from the depths.

Assaults against common sense and logic are the norm when one considers just what common sense and logic truly imply.

When we look at this world around us, the innate tapestry woven from this world to the next.
We can accept just how crucial anything is.
Or isn't.
Depending on who sees the tapestry incarnate,
Or if they see it at all.
Truly, some don't see it as a tapestry at all.
Others don't know what to make of those things that are right in front of them.

Is this what the world is made of?
Confusion?
What is the only constant in this realm aside from death?
Order, or Chaos?
Is Chaos in and of itself not the order that life decides to utilize?
Order as defined by humans is simply that, a generalized term used to make sense of a world that doesn't really care if we understand it or not (as it has many other things to be concerned with that we cannot fathom).
It is instead the meaning we interpret in the Chaos that a true system of order can occur.

*I say this from the comfort of my tent, staring reluctantly into the fire, sipping my 12 year old Isle, speaking to a spirit who might or might not care*

[thought_on_a_wind]

*The fire is now lit, a shell I add to the pyre, as the new flesh welcomes the fresh air*

Fire to purify.
Air to revive.
Water to cleanse.
Earth to stabilize.
Spirit to empower this new form as it has countless times before.

The energy is the will.
The will is the intent.
The intent resides within the mind.
The mind dwells where it will.
The astral is where the minds usually paces.
That is where I learn all these new faces.
Time pauses as the altar before me shatters, rending my beliefs to the core.
Indiscernably altering my reality to sync with the fate I've naught the oppurtunity to divine!
The pulse of the energy enters this form, ready to change me once again.
Wings sprout forth where once before there were stubs.
Reptillian in appearance, the muscles and sinew move comfortably once again.
I see a sword, simple in design, rested before me.
It beckons me pick it up, though I hesitate remembering all too well how it was used before.
I promise the promise of the sacred.
It will not follow that path a second time.
The armor I don with none of a second thought.

"Take the world by storm and fire only if you are aware of the consquences oh padfoot."
An oh so familiar voice says.
That voice being my blind ego, hungry for more reassurances he will not get.
Action without thought is either foolhardy or brave.
The former is truer in concerns to what I did so long ago.
Binding myself.
Sometimes the one it is hardest to gain forgiveness from is ones own self.
In this I have suceeded by leaps and bounds.
Yet None more!!
The sword I hold in my hand must be used for the defense of those that be harassed by that loathesome creature that is oh so predictable
Ego of the narcissistic
Privelege of the "nobility".
N'er shall I rest since that task is never accomplished.
That is my curse, that is my flaw.
That is the connundrum that attaches to my ego.

[thought_on_a_wind]

So strong a thought for so weak an answer.
What in this world is not true if everything has its roots in reality?
A perception can be based in delusion.
But that delusion has some bearing in truth.
Though the truth only be that the one thinking the delusion is delusional,
Still it bears worth pondering- if only briefly- with all delusions there had to have been something observed to set the cogs to motion.
The greatest question then is which part is the truth of the matter, and which is purely fabrication by the defense mechanism inherent of the observer or the proclaimer?

Another question I ponder much in conjunction with the one above is, who has the right to clearly and devoutly naysay someone else based upon what a bit of parchment scribbled with things arcane portends?
Was that parchment once new and the author failing of their own delusions?
When should one decide to depart from the parchment all together as with time, the wheels of humanity sings the same song in a new key.
That new key both changing everything, and altering nothing.

If what I say makes no sense to anyone else, at least it makes sense to me, which I daresay is the only important thing.

[thought_on_a_wind]

Oh great spirits of the wood and glen.
I start to walk again.
Lend me the guidance I have so intuitively used in the past.
Strive, I will, to make it last.
Help me help those who need helping.
As this road requires an un-biased light every once in a few miles.
I claim not to know anything.
And try best to be a mentor only when I'm sufficient for the task.
Help me access the wild side in a way as to help those around and abound.
For weeks, months, years, I've known myself, yet known not what road I should walk.

I guess there lies the answer.
Walk.
If I happen upon the path meant am I to take.
I'll know it or be obliviously following it anyway.
In the end, hope that I might to do a deed of some prominence and power for humanities sake, I suppose that till that point vague reassurances are all that I can look to for inspiration.

[thought_on_a_wind]

Lo and behold the Eyes of the many sparing a moment to stare away from the thing that glows. Inperceptably registering those things that go on in every day life. I welcome the image of a people who once again pay attention to the things that matter, and not the superficialities that come from faux-importance in tow.

What are those things that are important aside the obvious eating breathing and drinking?

In rapidity I speak my mind to echo off the walls of some room I have yet to accompany.
1. The self high low and in the middle, for without the three sated, no endeavors to help other may be fruitful.
2. Family- if you can't live with them, at least you can understand what you should and should not do for your own broodlings once they be borne.
3. The understanding that things aren't always what they seem. Unless they are, in which case it would be best to understand the such.

[thought_on_a_wind]

Falling in the dark of night.
I awaken a beaten and bruised man.
Stark view of reflections infallible ability to tell the truth.
Who is this man that stares back into these feral eyes?
In terms of recognition, I am null.
For so long ago those eyes were but infant with knowledge plenty.
Now to merely digress to the point of somone older and feeling empty.
Who am I?
The question works itself into the mantra Why?
And the answer comes with the chill of my spine.
I am myself.
Regardless of what kind of life lived I,
That is something I cannot take away from me.
For these feral eyes staring back at me were once unknown to this person.
Till that day I discovered them looking back through the glass.
Yet, that does not help the regrets that still slink around like unwanted but uncontested guests.
Those things a rudimentary part of the self does not want to forget.
Enabling a crippling highland rage overtake me in my sleep.
Growling deeply the beast.
Convulsions, and fits of grinding teeth.
Wish that I had taken the bullet instead of him.
I was the protector of that party.
I neglected my duty.
Many lives have I known war.
Facing it on the frontlines, and fleeing from its arrival.
Yet never was there a fiecer war than the one within.
That part that still thinks that I sinned.
In contemptuous pause I must forgive the one that needs the most healing.
Myself.
Seems like such a lonely road because of it.
That I must face on my own, this daunting peril of famine of my confidences.
Blessed Be Self.
I plead, forgive me.

(dedicated to a friend of mine that died naught but 30 ft. away from me. W. B. W. 1985-2004 you're life was not forgot, may you drink forever in the halls of Valhalla)

[thought_on_a_wind]

Deep thoughts of fermenting glows and lows.
Of things mixed high and low.
What importance should be given to what one knows?

Every rule has its exceptions.
Life can subside without oxygen (lungfish suspended in the drys of a riverbed)
Yet what kind of life is there to live if one does not constantly question ones own views?
There are things to be gleaned from sources previously unknown.
As this universe with which we associate has many a side yet to be known.
And this 'tis another day.

[thought_on_a_wind]

*Southern tip of my isle Tartan family colors of war and peace bared with pride*

Per Mare Per Terras.
Those words ring through this golem of flesh and bone.
A phrase of defiance set forth by my ancestors, and held to this day on the Isle Skye and beyond.
Through thick and thin.
The massacre of Glencoe, bean sidhe wailing so shrill.
We've conquered and held.
Fought to respite.
A rough yet refined power all it's own that fights sternly with the power of the Highlands.
Such is my pride.
Such is my willing folly.

[thought_on_a_wind]

Little did I know just what was implied by thinking for myself. It isn't just an orchestration of individuality... it isn't what you wear, what tattoo you get, where you've got what peircing... it isn't what book you read, which faction you are/aren't with. Nay... I used to believe that. Alas, I was mistaken... it doesn't even hinge on what music you listen to or what interests you. Nay, anyone is capable of this act. All it truly entails is questioning what you are told, and weighing it against what you feel and then arbitrating a solution to balance the two out.

For somone born of nothing but ideals is most likely going to be a serial killer.

[thought_on_a_wind]

*I move to the eastern outskirts of my spiritual isle (if no man be an isle, at least my spirit is) to beseech the infinite wisdom of the Man O' Wise.*

Say to him I this "O great wise man who rests so learnedly before me, I need guidance on what lessons I should occupy myself with"
He to me "Are you rested comfortably o' youngeyes?
Myself to him "Most certainly so."
Wise man replieth "Start out by standing on one foot whilst waving your hands in the air and biting your tongue till you draw blood. Once the blood astart's flowin' pour some lye on it. Once you have accomplished that task speak to me..."
Willingly and readily I complied, though I will admit that the lye had a certain bite to it. When all of these things were accomplished I said to him "WZZMNANAN!! EEIIEII CCNNTT TLLLKKK!! HOWWAFEZ IZ SK QSSTIOMMZ?"
Wise man "So, I see that you have accomplished my task. Now that I have your undevided attention, and you cannot comfortably interject me of oh the infinite wisdom of the material and immaterial, you may now truly listen as you hop on one foot."
"What did you plan on gleaning from me?" "npPLTYZZZZ" "Oh, so you were attempting to get me to do your homework for ye ay? Listen now.... WHY should I teach you those things you are currently trying to teach yourself? Learn your own lessons, and I will talk to you minus the lye... good day, I'm off to the salt baths."
He teeters off leaving me jilted at his implications... and a painful burn in the region of my mouth as well...

[thought_on_a_wind]

Which is the heinous of the three? The gun, The blade, or the catepillar?
.... got it yet?
No?
The catepillar, it's a living being, and of its own free will can do things most heinous, like grow into a moth and eat my favorite shirt. The gun and the knife both have practical purposes, it is the mis-use of the owner (the one with life) that makes either or these implements heinous. If you blame one of these for deaths you might as well blame the sun for skin cancer, the air for rusting things, and water for drowning people.

[thought_on_a_wind]

In between this realm and the next, there is an isle I have avidly mentioned recently. In it there are things that may or may not turn a sane man insane (depending on that persons constitution and will power)

But what is not too widely known is that there is a sanctuary within the sanctuary. This place I roam all too much. In and of itself everyone visits this place every once in a blue moon, most wise-men of the past and present would rather call this place home than they would a 3 story mansion with all the deluxes, vestments, and restitutive inducing pleasures that any amount of money can buy.

The name of this inner domicile- repleat of anything save a pad to sit upon and a pool in the center of the cave- is the pool of reflection; variously called the area of contemplation, or despair. It is where a mad-man dreams of the annihilation and the brilliant philosopher sits avidly to listen to the Universe speaking through them.

For those that know not the name, or feel that we are accompanied someplace else, the title reads "Epiphany" "Chagrin" and "Realization" (some might point out that realization and epiphany are one and the same, however, you have to realize that you've had an epiphany, otherwise epiphany in and of itself has no meaning [like three quarters of the presidential candidates I might add])

I sit willingly idle at the very rim of this oh so lucidly vivid pool watching what would pass by.

When a phrase turns into words, those words given life and a face I cannot describe speak to me, and entice, that enticement leads to the need to channel, so that is what I do. Pen in hand and notebook in tow, I write down these things that run through my head blankly

"Through think and thin, old and new. I have been felt in the ages through. Though gods doth take notice of my existence, they merely nod and walk away. What are these things that I non-vocally say? Live this next day with all the power of a dragon with the finesse of a dancer, and the patience of a grand-mother, and the world in its own right will open up to those that wish to follow along the path of the wild."

Do these words truly hold any relevance? Know, I do not, as they are as new to you as they are to me.

Sated at the moment, I relenquish my post and start to walk crampedly to the door of doors that leads outside to fresh air, and light aplenty. Only to be met by the one whose face flitted within the waves inside. His stare, having the intensity of a neutron star about to burst forth in all the fury of a newly collapsed black hole, speaks in a tongue that isn't a tongue, but is all the same

"I am father time. I overwatch everything in this universe. I've seen gods rise and fall, whole races and solar systems cease to exist. I have been to the birth of every being in this dimension. Yet of all the things I find most interesting, it is how those of finite try to comprehend me and my kind by simple markings etched on the stone that is not lifeless, but knows a slower existence. Most of the me, these same beings start to think that they can escape me like they sometimes can my cousin Death. That by going so fast, I will simply not exist. I enjoy the chase, but it always ends the same, they are caught, and depending upon my mood they may or may not make it back from whence they came, although mostly I would rather sit back and see what is so important that they should try to skip out on paying me my offering. The advice I would impart upon your fragile mamalian mind is that in order to learn anything at all you should first ignore everything until I sink into the very core of your concious, once that side of the matter is accomplished, Learn everything around you that is at all possible anew until you forget about me completely, then and only then can you truly escape my observances."

With that he did cease to exist more than walk away, and had not set foot in the cave before (that is a luxury of being time I suppose, decide exactly where and where not you belong without ever worrying about the discovery or when you should do anything.)

[thought_on_a_wind]

upon a horizon blackened by the night... peer I do at a golden light. Upon that crescent pure and true there is just enough cloud to produce a halo, but not obscure the view... on the distant hill where the moon now rests, an owl hoots on Earth Mothers chest... if ever there was an hour for witches to feel pure... this would be the one showcasing with such allure.

I don't know if that really did any justice to the perfect scene accompanying the outside of my door from the front porch, but it was worth a try because a camera surely wouldn't have done the trick.

[thought_on_a_wind]

From the depths of a violent volcano I now rest upon the roots of mountains to renew what was once lost to me...

Sanity?

No.
Clarity?
Never, clarity has a way of making itself apparent after someone bites the dust or when an infant gasps its first breath.

Nay, I stand now before the boiling blood of mother pure wishing to invoke once again the spark that died out so long ago.

"On the land, and by the sea.
I wish to invoketh thee.
Oh ancient power so full of life still.
Please listen to my plea's and urge my will.
Many a day have I traveled rocky desert on nub and foot.
Upon sore torn knees, and ragged clothes embellished with soot.

For 'ere do I wish to walk upright again.
Yet the travesty is I know not when.
The last time I traipsed carelessly through open glen.
Soothe this old soul.
Empower it again.
Living to see death in all of its manifestations.
I'm sure you understand my dismal frustration.

Such vexing news to see so many die so young.
Is it my curse to be forced to live in their stead?

Is it true what they say?
The good die young?

Too taken by the silence and beaten by the answers.
This is why I sing my songs.
And have interred myself in muddy bogs.
For that vitality has been quickly fading.
A young man wrested of youth forced to see things as one does at the ripe old age of 80.
"
I walk away from said volcano sapped of the rest of my store of vitality...

Unable was I to finish rightly my incantation...
Now I'm tired...
Yes...
Sleep...
Too bad I know that it isn't the great sleep...
but, I guesss that it never comes when

you
want
it
to.....

[thought_on_a_wind]

Though this is a rarity in my world. I pay homage now to a god that is above all other gods. One who's omnipotent contributions can leave one in the most cheery of moods, or stricken with afflictions ought not be mentioned here. He is The One!! There are no others before him.

Which God? No, nothing christian. Try harder... Nothing Judeo... Give up?

Goibniu.

Why? Forge mastery and beer make for a winning combo. He is omnipotent because beer is everywhere and forges are still paramount forms of production in this days society (though I will admit that a greater portion of the forging nowadays is autonomous in nature... which means there is more time to sit back and sip that beer or mead :D)

Much can be gleaned in reflection when sipping on a cool beer after a hard day in the forge (metaphorically speaking of course, that is, unless you are a blacksmith). Though some would say the phrase "Work hard, Play hard" is atrociously skewed in it's public perception, none can lay fault at the doorstep of letting loose every once in a lonesome. I'm of the firm opinion that if more people idly conversed over a cool beer than fighting over the nitty gritty "opposition" there would be a modicum of peace in the world.

So many times in this fast paced era of emails, appointments and perpetually compounding debt/slave labor we're forced to endure on a daily basis do we get so caught up in things, that when that sliver of R&R comes about and blesses us, we don't know what to do with it.

What should you do? Go out and blow a couple bucks at your local watering hole? Go out and buy stuff that our ancestors would've thought of as gaudy and wasteful? How about walking in the tick-ridden woods to fight the fury of mosquito bites and potentially those of snakes?

The truth of the matter is more oft than not, we get so entangled in the go here to hurry there and get back to the gas-station before the price rises another $10.00 scenario that this negative thinking permeates our free time. Leaving a greater portion of the working class either zonked or a nervous wreck. This leads to thought processes like the examples paragraph previous.

This is why I'm paying homage to Goibniu. Through his skillful mastery of forge and brew he represents a bridge, a balance between the two. It's this balance I feel we should all strive for, as that would truly lead to healthier productivity. Yet what are these words coming out of my mouth but mere utterances of nothing.

Blessed be the properly consumed beer; for merry are the times when you can afford the luxury of time for the purposes of the consumption.

[thought_on_a_wind]

The word Me.
The word I.
The word (insert your name here... for me Tom will suffice).

What do these words really mean?
Do they signify a textbook definition of the person using them?
Are they a list of convictions the user attaches them to?

In essence: what makes you?
What defines a person?
Is it a laudry list of actions past, present & future?
Is it the importance we afford ourselves?

Or is the answer more scientific?
Is the illusion of self the problem?
Are our actions simply pre-dertimined before the conscious mind has a chance to mull it over?
If so what does that mean of destiny versus freewill?

Are we actually going by what our heart tells us we are, or what our brain hears from others on the subject?

What level of importance should we strive to maintain in regards to others and thier sometimes ill-percieved views?

I ask a bunch of questions I've not intention to answer. I'd rather feel who I am than logically work it out first.

So many times we typify ourselves and other people by what we wear, what title is tacked onto whose name or what our view of someone elses belief is (i'm not speaking beliefs discriminatorily hostile in nature mind you), so forth and so on to such an extremity that we end up losing sight of ourselves... the true definition to the word.

I am me because that's who I am, any beliefs I hold are ones I agree with, and I'm aware that as a human, any endeavor I meet will carry my own signature style. The defintion of self can only be had if you can look yourself in the mirror and accept first whatever you may percieve as a downfall.

~quoth the wind.

[thought_on_a_wind]

Moon ever swimming aloft on cloudy whisped skies.
Glowing down and channeling the spirit necessary to lift my sails.
'Tis true that for the last couple of months I've neglected her...
My mother in orbit.
Relaying and reinterpretting the suns violent rays into something so intoxicating,
It's rightly called her own.
I've been sailing hither and to and fro in this ocean of despair.
Missing my isle.
Hah! A son of Donald without his isle!
So meaningless I've felt.
So empty and devoid of the warm glow of my burning insanity.
Fires oft glance from time to time upon that isle,
A call, a response that I'm yet to come back, but that it's not simply drifted off to oblivion.
In these scathing seas I've narrowly avoided the worst of the storm... or so I think I've faced the worst.
But to my abandoned will and against all hopes a dolphin makes itself known upon the salty waters yon.
Reminding me that all I've fought for, all I've failed at is nothing that I'm struggling through alone.
And that this dolphin and wonderful silvery moon will guide me to my island, in the cove... all that I've previously cared about and known.
The world she doth span more miles than I'd ever hope to walk.
But for her size and my lack thereof she also does talk.
"Son of Donald, many generations removed"
"Why do you sulk around and curse me whenever it behooves?"
"Those battles in your past are rightly left behind."
"To dwell upon them too much is to render yourself blind."
"Blood's been spilled many times before."
"Yet you seek to crucify yourself. Stop this, I implore."
And so I start to sail back to my now joyful shores.
But to rest this boat upon the land is a fallacy I can't ignore.
For to tether it to a palm abustle with simian activity.
Is to let it fester, let it rot, apart from it's common relativity.

I stare around and see my tent of which it's been such a time since I've spent,
Sitting before this sentinel fire sipping lavishly at my wonderful bottle of Scotch Isle of Jura.

This writing has no meaning, nothing I write is supposed to make sense. This sacred space I've accomapnied is here for me to maintain and remember my cozy insanity.

And the goddess without a formal name, and her husband...
As well as my distant ancestor. Donald of Islay king of the isle's.
And presidents of prominence in the form of not one, but both Roosevelts.
May I carry the torch on both sides.

Blessed be.

[thought_on_a_wind]

In the midst of my isle, far removed from the comfort of the cove, I hear a calling.
One with which I'm vaguely familiar.
The name has to be there, but I just can't seem to place it...

Of course, Death needs no other name.
None save its own would fit.
It's a timeless name, is easily identifiable, and just fits the thing right.

I'm neither happy nor frightened at the swimming visage before me.
Were he to be taking me I'd know.
He stares, and stare I back.
It's a moment of a million conversations, but one that never truly takes place.

In meeting Death in a somewhat neutral sort of fashion, I should be asking things like.
"Whassat the other end ay?"
or
"Is there an end?"
or
"Does Terry Pratchett have a copyright or other legal protection on you?"
or maybe even
"Why'd you have to take Democracy... I'd have bet a couple more years could've been squeezed out of it."
and of course, there are deeper questions like
"Jerry Falwell died... why the hell haven't you taken Pat Robertson so the Televangelist WonderTwins (TWTS or TWiTS) could unite in some strange hell where everyone's an evolutionist Teletubby lover and the court continually shreds ID and approves gay marriage; raising the American Middle Finger of Justice towards these Constitutional layers of the shit?"

Oh, there were a lot more... many more... serious ephanistic questions that I dare not utter till my answer is found. Regardless... that answer did not come.

"I am Death. I take those in pain. Lay end to the weariness and help them back onto their feet. I'm hated, cursed, spat upon, defiled by proxy, feared and relished. I am as welcome as a morning dove upon a morning sill, and as loathed as a tax collector during bad harvest. I've been called a plague, and proferred as a gift. Many feel that they rule me, that does not last long. This is not my job, this is who I am. I escort weary souls back home to the comforts of the hearth.

Think me vile, think me putrid, but all I am is a doorkeeper."

Somehow, I wasn't certain how to feel after Death vanished... but I most certainly felt alive... in a clear leveled sort of way. Liberated...
___________________________
<~|Death Be Just The Doorkeeper|~>
-------------------------------
remember that when the pain be too much.
It might just help you remember some of the niceties the other side of the veil has.

[thought_on_a_wind]

So surprisingly I now walk towards the middle of my isle.
As I go I light some Dragons Blood incense.
It's pungent aroma a reminder of my task at hand.
I walk along, smoke thinly streaming in my wake.
My destination is my Altar, it's place is beside the entrance to the pool of reflection.
As I go I ask my spirit guides and animal guides/companions to meet me there with the utmost care in stipulating it as a request, not a command.

In reverence I pick up the family tartan and claymore.
Bearing a ceremonial shield and salt of the sea tied to the belt in a pouch.

I move forward my will determined to see this through.

As I go towards my destination I see the world around me sort of fade.
No longer is there the rolling hills, nor the semi-tropical landscape.
The Altars to the North and South all but faint memories such is the focus of my will.

At last I reach this place of ritual.
Meeting me there is my spirit guide John.
The Dragon who's name is his but responds to Draco (all references of the movie aside please)
Too there is my once fellow warrior Gramel.
Berserker he be, but one that actually can be quite civil given the opportunity.
My spiritual colleague/mentor Mojo paces somewhat restlessly as is a tiger's habit around others.
A faint image, translucent but concrete glimmers above my Altar.
This is the spirit of an ancient life.
He lead a war, I feel it now.
We are one, but several lives removed.
Two sides of the same spectrum.

The isle now nothing but a reminiscent after thought.
The scene before me is one of drifting through the galaxy.
I feel the power of a million million stars now.
Pulsing through me.
Empowering me.
Strengthening my weaking resolve.
Erasing the illusion that was my depression.
My mind focuses.
I don my anscetral apparel tartan colors: green field, blue midground, and thin stripes red and white foreground.
I heave the Claymore from its resting place, swing it feebily, and again with more refine.

Dragons blood take center stage now on my altar of crimson and hunter green tinted marble.

I look around and nod to my various acquaintances.
This be my place, this be their's.
The universe, she pulses.
Receptive and waiting.
I pass the long finely hone blade of my Claymore through the incense.
They dance, they merge, they intertwine and separate.
They are one.
With a violence that begets the time it takes someone to think I arc the weapon in a horizontal proficiency I've not felt in centuries.
As I plunge it into the waiting universe it does not scream, it does not hurt.
It just braces the fashioned iron with a comforting solidity that leaves me somewhat puzzled.

"With the universe all around me. My various guides and mentors abound.
And with a ghost of the spirit that was me above, close to my higher-self, I focus my will. This is a time removed from time, a rare occasion where there is concretely a thing as the present. I beseech the focus. I request the borders of this endless circle be watched by the spirits of earth air fire and water. This be the time and the place of my request, so I begin."

"Mother above, below, around within and without I call to you."
"Father without withing, below and above I ask your presence."
"Higher-self, I need your clarity and presence now more than ever."
"Donald, my ancestor and progenitor of my line, I stand humbly within the grasp of the universe. Wishing to pay homage and ask you for advice."

"Please help me with a problem I face right now if you would."

"I have a friend asserting that I move to his abode, since I know no home of my own. For as much as I'd like to believe it coincides my better judgement, I fall short of discerning primal fear from precognitive feelings."
"I wish for help and guidance in the form of my own realization."
"I am in a state of disarray and confusion, taken aback by the various things that have gone wrong in others of my branch of the clan. My mother is physiologically suffering, my father is both physically and mentally suffering. My sister has entrapped herself in her own lies and those she claims to love have fallen as well. My brother is struggling to make ends meet with his newly formed family.
"I ask for strength and rejuvenation."
"I feel an imbalance within myself that has me left without an answer. I stagnate, I falter. I feel useless and less of a person for not having a productive job. I lost my bank account and had the privelege of witnessing all of my $600.00 'stimulus plan' money get sucked up by my creditor to fill a small hole in the increasing interest... nothing paid on the principle."
"I request the guidance in these matters that you would provide me through dreams."
"Finally, I feel a pain amongst the living, one that has manifested in the form of people losing hope. Apathy and frustration. Hopelessness and fear. I see a populace that no longer cares to move it's own muscles without direction third party."
"I ask for guidance on how I can help alleviate the problem productively and with the bounds of my ethics."

These requests I utter, focusing my energy upon the will, feeling the universe strengthen me, run through this vassal that is me. At the climax I hear the promise of this guidance to come through dreams. And the will is released. So mote it be. The universe has it now, I must go and ground myself.

Sitting back at my cottage sometime later, grounded I am. 12 year old Isle has a funny way of grounding you just the way you need.

Thank you all those spirits still in my life. Thank you father and mother, thank you Donald and that spirit that doth fight. Thank you Mojo and Draco, protectors and guides.
Thank you Gramel, for your guidance as well. And thank you John and my higher-self for letting me known when I'm fearing the mundane. Blessed Be all.

[thought_on_a_wind]

yes, though the island be my home, as of late I've been away. Today I feel a pain that I've not felt before... it's one of confusion, frustration and anything else that could be associated legally with the two words.

Tonight I pace the halls of my once grand castle on the mainland. There is no seal, as it fell off as soon as I took my helm from head. As I walk up the castle steps, I still see patrols walking too and fro. As if lost. I'm not in my usual garb of:

silver breastplate, blue dragonscale gauntlets, greaves of silver, sword shining a platinum and ruby gaze, dragonwings sprouting from my back, midnight blue cloak, gleaming pauldrons and half-helm shaped like a tiger- mouth opened.

No, I've donned that armor in a long while... as for why, this dismal confusion, unfocused self that I've become has forgot the pride he once felt in being a warrior... I've always told myself that as a warrior, there would never be a day that I'd quit... and then I did... now seeing my armor once more, the tears sting the eyes misty. I remember that strength... almost as if looking into the past... I've felt apathetic towards all things for so long that I figured the change was permanent.

As I don my raiment, I start to feel that oh so familiar feeling of strength. My eyes open... I see what I've never seen before... hopes dashed at the last possible moment... yes, my warriors cheer, but my internal kingdom (including the isle of my retreat and domicile) has all but decayed. Left to rot... There is a lot of work to do... and not too much time to do it in. I open the door to my throne room, sit down, tilt my helm to the side, and rest my weary head upon my arm...

Heavy be the head that wears the crown of the negligent destructor.

Neglecting my troops has destroyed both morale and their bodies...

Yes, much work must be done indeed.

I return by door of teleportation located behind my throne to the isle of my solitude, this time inviting my comrades to partake in festivities for a while. At least my friends tried not to abandon me (hopefully), though I cost them dearly...

Maybe we could all sit down around the fire sipping on Isle over idle and festive conversation....