Clouds covered the sun through the window, and vague darkness depressed the room, crushed it down into a concentration of gloom and despair. I half-awoke and fell asleep again.
waters of lost souls
” I am named for the saint of lost souls,” I said, though I did not know it to be true. It felt true.
“It’s not ‘souls’, it’s ’causes’,” said Gwydion. “Has your mind exchanged ’cause’ for ‘soul’ for a reason? Are they the same? Or has a cause (a falsehood) been replaced by the truth of a soul?”
“I know I have lost, and though I cannot remember what I have lost, its bitterness and grief and self-pity (self-judgment) remain,” I, Gilvaethwy, replied.
“What is it you have lost?” asked Gwydion.
“I yearn for lost youth, the thick trees that promised eternity.”
“That is no answer, ’tis a complaint. What is it that you have lost? Do you know?”
“Affirmation and meaning through desire and satisfaction, desire and denial, rejection, confirmation of life, or devolvement and depredation of all that might ever have been important, in past or future.”
“Then how is it loss? Is it perhaps no loss at all, but merely an absence of something that never should have been. ”
transformation
“I know I have lost, and because I cannot remember what I have lost, perhaps my mourning is for something that never existed for me:
The becoming that never became.
The becoming that regretted itself.
The becoming of linearity to pointless circling.
The becoming of faith to utter confusion.”
“Do you know what you have lost?” asked Gwydion again, maddeningly.
“I don’t know. Perhaps because I don’t remember the loss, it was not loss,” I parroted, to appease him.
Then I surprised myself. “It was transformation.”
I awoke, bathed in the dreams of early morning, with the promise of wisdom regained. Sleep-clouded thoughts that fascinated so greatly, for whatever reason, that sleep was driven off by wonder or confusion. Before the crow of the cock, the spatter of eggs cooking in butter, the search from the ramparts.
Before the explosion in my mind that I could never see coming, the anger and rage and sadness; for happiness never lasts for me. Creativity and insight and temperance do not last with Gilvaethwy, like they do with Gwydion my brother.
I try to enjoy them while I have them, all the while mourning the certain knowledge that they will soon be gone from me.
Siege of the Spirit 