they took their gods with them,
weaving them into handwritten letters,
the monthly call home —
It was a journey, a pilgrimage —
walking, wandering, bookended by promise and hopes
where did one belong?
Was it the earth?
was it other people?
interdependence felt risky at times,
maybe because the hero's epic felt like it was meant for one person alone
At first it felt like there was so much of everything
but the urge to take possession, to conquer
It felt as if naming, occupying was a way of defining things in relation to oneself
that offered comfort
But it also felt territorial, domineering, violent
— somewhere beyond dimensions comprehensible
Where were the grounds for tenderness and love?
Someone once said (something like), "I think we're all looking for bits and pieces of love
to put in our pockets"
There are times when the world feels too much,
when it's like the colors that dance behind closed eyes
(but in a frenzy)
and there are also other moments
small enough to keep close
but also wonderfully vast in that kind of infinity
If that vagabond spirit lingers,
I hope it considers the land it rests on
because what is faith if not a loving care for the responsibility it carries?
and so I face the sun, shed the weight of linear, unrelenting time for just a while
epilogue: this is the part where I, the author, rise from the dead
this website was made sometime in March in 2021. Thank you for coming along.
for the web art jam. thx to all for everything, Neil Gaiman for American Gods, Cin and Crow for their conversation,
and you for being here. Take care.