- Vol. 01
- Chapter 12
Image by Rhona Byrne
Mobilized Clan StopThe ever mobilized group of wayward visitors, once twice thrice called ogres and trolls, had paused not for respite or sleep, but out of awe. They saw the horizon as a slowly, so slowly, shifting landscape. The clouds seemed to breathe some sort of life elixir from and above the stalwart mountains. Seen from such a distance the perpetual visitors at once saw a mirror. Like a vain tramp avoiding stepping in the puddle that reflected such a good-looking vision for fear of muddling the image.
They saw this mirror and were reminded of, no, introduced to, their own mortality. For generations, so many, had they wandered and lived, they had no mental image of themselves. No recurring flash sight of ego. No inhale exhale of self. They stood at the rocks' edge and simply let the view inform their thoughts. Simple.
Moments passed, many moments, and not one habitually nomadic visitor budged. They sat like passive misanthropes at a boring play. The clouds kept breathing, the waves kept licking, and the mountains kept forming. The collective awe-filled silence was finally broken when an old but sturdy leader collapsed. To put it more elegantly the old but sturdy leader was overwhelmed by beauty, so overwhelmed.
So much so that the old but sturdy leader crumpled over into a formidable heap, not without smashing some skull on a curt stone. The sound amidst the now ancient silence was near reality shattering. Some of the wandering visitors almost thought they were tiny fish swimming among kelp, some even thought they were standing on a polar axis looking at a vast expanse of sand dunes.
Mobilized Clan StopWhat the sound of skull on stone accomplished was a jarring yet illuminating debriefing on the mythologized history of the world. The world as constructed from the outside in, meaning the very subjective yet fact based view that these lost and found visitors formed. For it was this novel now standardized notion of why (the all encompassing why asked by each cell in any given organism) and its inherent and unspeakably visceral explanation that set the wayward visitors afoot, 180 degrees, back from whence they came, now new, to discover thoughts they forgot they've already thought, and to leave their dearly departed leader to sulk in splendid solitude.
By the time they reach the other end of the mountains their old but sturdy former leader will have crystallized into an equally old but sturdy who-knows-what. And they will gaze upon him, refreshing their sense of spirit in the material world. Maybe they will turn back only to discover thoughts they've forgotten they've thought.
It is this circularity that binds the ever (not quite) mobilized group of wayward visitors in a beautiful dance.