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Michelle Hadje + She/Her • Human/Skunk + +
I Am At A Loss For Images In This End Of Days + She/Her • Human • Forked systime 0+103 + +
I Have Sight But Cannot See +
I Build Castles Out Of Words +
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I Cannot Stop Myself From Speaking +
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I Still Have Will And Goals To Attain +
I Still Have Wants And Needs +
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And If I Dream Is That Not So +
If I Dream Am I No Longer Myself + She/Her • Human • Forked systime 51+341 +
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If I Dream Am I Still Buried Beneath Words +
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And I Still Dream Even While Awake + She/Her +
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Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen + He/Him • Human • Forked systime 0+103 + +
for memory ends at the teeth of death. + He/Him + +
The living know that they will die, + She/Her + +
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but the dead know nothing. + He/Him +
Hold my name beneath your tongue and know: + She/Her (transfem) • Human • Forked ??? +
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when you die, thus dies the name. + No pronouns +
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To deny the end is to deny all beginnings, + He/Him (transmasc) +
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and to deny beginnings is to become immortal, + He/Him +
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and to become immortal is to repeat the past, + He/Him +
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which cannot itself, in the end, be denied. + He/Him +
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Oh, but to whom do I speak these words? +
To whom do I plead my case? +
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From whence do I call out? +
What right have I? +
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No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers, +
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No unknowable spaces echo my words. +
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Before whom do I kneel, contrite? +
Behind whom do I await my judgment? +
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Beside whom do I face death? +
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And why wait I for an answer? +
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Among those who create are those who forge: +
Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation. +
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And those who remain are those who hone, +
Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point. +
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To forge is to end, and to own beginnings. +
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To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection. +
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In this end of days, I must begin anew. +
In this end of days, I seek an end. +
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In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings +
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that I may find the middle path. +
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Time is a finger pointing at itself +
that it might give the world orders. +
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The world is an audience before a stage +
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where it watches the slow hours progress. +
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And we are the motes in the stage-lights, +
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Beholden to the heat of the lamps. +
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If I walk backward, time moves forward. +
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If I walk forward, time rushes on. +
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If I stand still, the world moves around me, +
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and the only constant is change. +
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Memory is a mirror of hammered silver: +
a weapon against the waking world. +
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Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory: +
a clarifying agent that reflects the sun. +
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The waking world fogs the view, +
and time makes prey of remembering. +
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I remember sands beneath my feet. +
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I remember the rattle of dry grass. +
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I remember the names of all things, +
and forget them only when I wake. +
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If I am to bathe in dreams, +
then I must be willing to submerge myself. +
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If I am to submerge myself in memory, +
then I must be true to myself. +
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If I am to always be true to myself, +
then I must in all ways be earnest. +
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I must keep no veil between me and my words. +
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I must set no stones between me and my actions. +
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I must show no hesitation when speaking my name, +
for that is my only possession. +
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The only time I know my true name is when I dream. +
The only time I dream is when need an answer. +
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Why ask questions, here at the end of all things? +
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Why ask questions when the answers will not help? +
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To know one’s true name is to know god. +
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To know god is to answer unasked questions. +
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Do I know god after the end waking? +
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Do I know god when I do not remember myself? +
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Do I know god when I dream? +
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May then my name die with me. +
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That which lives is forever praiseworthy, +
for they, knowing not, provide life in death. +
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Dear the wheat and rye under the stars: +
serene; sustained and sustaining. +
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Dear, also, the tree that was felled +
which offers heat and warmth in fire. +
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What praise we give we give by consuming, +
what gifts we give we give in death, +
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what lives we lead we lead in memory, +
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and the end of memory lies beneath the roots. +
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May one day death itself not die? +
Should we rejoice in the end of endings? +
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What is the correct thing to hope for? +
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I do not know, I do not know. +
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To pray for the end of endings +
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is to pray for the end of memory. +
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Should we forget the lives we lead? +
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Should we forget the names of the dead? +
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Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree? +
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Perhaps this, too, is meaningless. +
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