Meditations of Riordan Wulf

[Anarchist Son]

A lucid dream

At the tender age of ten, I was sent to the monastery for my visions. Insights. Cursed eyes. I know my path now, as the Wanderer has shown me even before the world broke into shadow and night.

The blood of a Djinn poses as a spoke.

The Well bristles liveliness. There is chaos all around. I should know this better than most, for I have received a lash for every utterance of it. In this life. In a past one. I shall bear the burden of it, for I have no other road but that of encumberment. It has been decided for me.

How can I trust those that cannot trust themselves?

I have seen this road before. The bloodied footprints in the sands lead me to a destination I have lingered within. That is why I was given away. That is why I am unwanted.

How much can I give when I was never given any? The taste of divinity has glossed itself on my lips, a warm embrace of acknowledgment to an attraction I have no souvenir to justify witnessing. The cold shoulder of the law beckons me like the eye of a storm. I gravitate toward its pull, but it does not require me aside to feed its hunger.

A shovel is a tool to unearth the mysteries that lie beneath. To plant the necessities that spring to life. To be a sigil of failure.

I have seen my time here. It is written, and etched out, and written again, to be covered in grain, faded into braille, but my hands are more than what they seem. They can feel this lettering, but what good are characters to a language never created?

A sword. An axe. A fist. My follies are a whetstone upon my knuckles. The scars adorned are my armor as thick as steel. I have not but shame for who I am. I do not deserve to draw breath. I do not deserve to see. That is why they took me in. I am broken, but my bones did heal, and my skin did mend, and now I am a instrument with all its strings torn and retied. Does the sound I make resonate, still, when it cannot play a chord?

Throw ash. Throw curses. The Wroth sees all. But when I see him, darkness befalls me. I am blind. I never needed my eyes to see. That is why I am an outcast. My shame is my strength. My failures a never-ending pit. But that is where all the water awaits. I shall never climb out, but neither shall I ever thirst. The liquid is dirty, and tainted, and vile. How it nourishes me so wildly.

You cannot escape the law. Until it is shifted. Until it is upended. I see this coming. But the laws are not real. I am real. They transmute through me. I manifest that which is not. I have no end, because I never was. Or I already was.

A storm gathers, red in hue, and vulgar in nature.

This storm has always been here. It has given us what we have. We are the fools who wish to shun it now that we have seen its vibrancy. For the moon does but reflect the light of the sun. I cannot reject the image that stares back at me. I have tried. That is why I was sold.

My mark has been etched. On what notch I do not know - for why should I? I have no control over it. There never was any to begin with.

Through me, what is not shall be realized. It does not need to breath to be. Not all that remains is tangible. I am the wind as it passes through on a cool evening. When I am felt, I am already no more. That is why I was bought.

My imperfection perfects me. I will show you the path to enlightenment. Just understand that it does not exist. But neither do I.