The sight of a brilliant comet blazing across the sky is a spectacle to make anyone weep, beholden by it's sheer magnificence.
As quickly as it penetrates the visible atmosphere and graces all with it's brief, burning light, it brings hope. It brings recognition and miracles, whose flames lick against the frayed edges of desperate and pleading souls. Casting the intensity of it's splendor and deliciously singeing the withered and neglected environs into something beautifully unrecognizable. It brings joy in the darkened hours; it is inherently transient in nature. And just as quickly as it appears, so too does the trail burn behind it, leaving naught but the shape of its experience. If sought too late, one might question if it ever appeared at all.
So to weep *for* the comet is pure folly.
To lament that which dwells in a threshold of existence is paradoxical. Burning, and burnt out. Soaring, and falling. Present, and absent. Message, and warning.
The scorching, fulgent fire of celestial denizens is not the same heat as the warm, consistent glow of a mortal hearth. It burns differently, scars more harshly when something tries to contain it.
The Garden will always remain locked. For the groundskeeper can no longer risk their livelihood, nor the ripened fruits that eagerly awaiting reverent hands to pluck them from swaying boughs.
There have been far too many tresspassers, thieves, frauds who sought haphazard employment. Beautiful smiles with even prettier words that obscured vile intentions and greedy hands. Each silhouette in the shape of hope, only for the light to reveal the amalgamated idol stitched together with pale red thread. Statues and foliage gleefully vandalized as the trees shrink in on themselves out of fear and survival.
Each restoration is longer than the last.
Tiredly, the groundskeeper reinforces the gates for the countless time. New chains with thicker links and iron locks surround the front entrance, while the side becomes barricaded with brick and cement. No further chances can afford to be taken.
The trees rustle concernedly amongst themselves as the groundskeeper threads barbed wire around the massive trunks, the leaves on the fruits recoil from shock with the blast of insecticide sadly sprayed upon them, the statues weep blood as parts of them are re-sculpted for armament.
How quickly a sanctuary becomes a battleground.
Tending to the locked garden is difficult, exhausting, and draining for a single soul; but the responsibility cannot be entrusted to anyone else for it was not given to just anyone.
And as the days lengthen, with the groundskeeper growing ever weary, they still endure.
For if the garden wilts under their hand, so be it.
But they can never forgive themselves if they allow the garden to perish by the hands of others, under the guise of camaraderie.
As a general rule of thumb, it's wise to purchase a brand new mirror when it's absolutely necessary—for a few reasons. The main one being "energy."
Spiritually, mirrors can act as a container or a doorway depending on the use and intent. To buy a used one is to invite all sorts of spiritual chaos into one's life.
But the spiritual world is not visible in the mundane to those not paying attention.
Or to those who get distracted.
I was the latter.
But, in my defense, you would be too had you beheld what I did.
A relic of a time long since gone; at least it must have been as this was not a simple tool languidly pieced together. It had presence, purpose, and a gravity that lured me in before I even consciously realized that I was holding it.
The mirror was heavier than I expected, the weight a comfortable ache in my hand as my fingers wrapped around the thick handle. Slowly, my head tilted to the side as a curious heat began to emanate from the object, and I felt my cheeks flush in response.
I didn't tell the shopkeep that he was woefully undercharging me for such an invigorating find.
But when I returned home with my prize in hand, I silently gave thanks for my fortune as I sat on my bed to thoroughly inspect the mirror uninterrupted.
The antique gold comprising the majority of it looked darker in the dimly lit room—almost giving it a more sinister quality as I turned it over in my hands carefully. On the back of the mirror was a simple etching that I was unable to name in the middle of a thickly lined carved triangle, and as I tenderly traced my fingers over the marks I felt a tingling sensation surge up through my arm.
With a shudder I returned the mirror back to its original position to study the face and glass. The border surrounding the glass was delicately carved with two thick curves on either side. Within the curves were thinner, less pronounced accent lines and at the top, where the curves met the glass lay a circular single black stone.
Jet?
Onyx?
Obsidian?
My curiosity got the better of me and I angled the mirror back and forth to try to get a better look at the gem and that's when I noticed the quick glint on the back-tilt for a fraction of a second.
And as I measuredly adjusted the angle to hold the shine, I leant closer to see the white starburst in the middle of the darkened stone and a soft gasp left my lips.
A black star sapphire...
Amidst the ancient gold of the whole of the object and above the deep violet of the glass itself, the stone seemed perfectly at home.
My fingers came up to trace down the curves framing the glass as a shiver ran down my spine, yet I continued undeterred.
If anything, I felt incentivized to continue further as my fingers danced lower down to where the handle met the base of the mirror itself. I noticed how the handle was somewhat tapered at the beginning before it started to get thicker going down and my fingers began to struggle to wrap around the middle as I noted the round, bulbous tip accentuating the end.
My thumb slowly and softly rubbed along the thin accent lines trailing down to the tip and the warmth the mirror had while in the shop earlier began to return.
Oh
Suddenly, almost with a shock, I realized that this mirror was enchanted—as the violet glass began to distort and hazy images started to flicker through: a newly abandoned church in the middle of the night, an altar prepared for worship to an entity it does not know, smoke framing hunger, the silhouette of temptation, lifeless marble eyes watching with silent pride, a trembling hand clutching the altar cloth before it squeezes almost violently and yanks the cloth in a frenzied desperation.
The glass distorted before it would show me what truly aches at the center of my being and my grip on the heated handle tightened with frustration as the image settled back into my own heated reflection.
Yet, where I knew my eyes held agitation, my mirror's showed me promise with a hint of amusement.
It didn't intend to make this easy, but it yearned for the same thing I did.
Another soft pulse of the heat came from the mirror before it began to gradually cool. And as I gave it one last look, while I considered when I wanted to try to do this again—I finally noticed the true shape of the mirror and handle...and another flush crept across my cheeks.
Oh
This was a ritual tool; and it was going to see the rite through all the way to the end.
In whatever capacity I needed it to.
In every sense it wanted to.
He would have a focal point to observe.
I would have a surface to reflect on.
And we would be fulfilled again and again and again until my exhaustion overtook me.
But even then, he would be beside me as I slept.
Ever vigilant. Ever observant. Ever perceptive.
And when I opened my eyes to see not my own staring back at me, I began to wonder: was the sweet ache in my chest for myself?
My altar is not accessible to just any wayward soul; the gauntlet preceding it has a vast amount of trials, and I am ever vigilant to ensure those that attempt the descent do not tread lightly or carelessly.
For the ambrosia that awaits within withers and recoils at unrefined and arrogant offerings—a cruel bait and switch to snatch holy relics without care or disregard for the significance of them.
It is no wonder the few who have discovered such a sacred place, much less trespassed upon it, lay mangled and unrecognizable along the path. Each false claim guaranteeing no future failures in judgement of character.
And the silence echoes brokenly throughout the temple, the low whistle of hope ringing through as the gate is opened this time; not breached.
Oh
An initiate? An adept?
Or a lucky happenstance?
Those prayers all play host to the Ambitious One as he considers the landscape, studying it instead of scrutinizing it.
Just that act alone is prerequisite to continue below— but it is not unique.
I am ever cautious.
Yet he continues, unrattled by the implication of failure as though it was never an option. The trials of the gauntlet for him are not deterrents, but clear and measurable expectations for who he is.
For who I need him to be.
Each test a further confirmation that he is in his rightful place as he has no use for doubt; effortlessly he attunes himself to the ever shifting landscape, unperturbed but fascinated at the possibilities presented to him— both attainable and those seemingly not.
But his discernment is true as I witness him clear the first obstacle, and I tamper down the burgeoning optimism I find within me.
Though the lanterns guiding him burn brighter, the first taskmaster has always been arguably the easiest to fool.
And as he approaches the second, his presence unwavering despite the winds hiding within the cracks and ruins of my temple; this trial is observed with bated breath as this taskmaster has always been violently conquered.
Insecurity flickers through the torches, the shadows brace in worrisome anticipation. His shadow is reflected back at him in the empty room and surely it will come to bloodshed— as it has before, as it always will.
He tilts his head; so does the shadow.
Assessing.
His hand comes to rest on his weapon; the same-self mimics.
Inevitable.
He smirks before quickly pivoting and side-stepping around the other, he drops his weapon and brings his hands up peacefully. So too does the shadow.
Containment.
He understands
It is with thinly veiled awe that I watch him proceed to the final test. All who have come before him have magnificently fallen to the third taskmaster—save for one.
The Ambitious One is confident as he regards the yawning pit before him and the ornate doors to the altar at the other side of the room.
There is no obvious way to attain that which he craves. Yet, in the face of uncertainty he perserveres, and with a deep breath he steps with certainty on the empty air; instinctively he attunes to the path that was laid out before him. Each measured step brings him closer toward his goal.
And fans the flames of my desire even higher.
The temple trembles and dust falls from the ceiling as he pauses just before taking the final step before the doors.
It is all too easy to fail here and now.
Another side step as in the previous trial, and he remains firmly planted above the pit before taking one step forward, the last empty space between him and the platform housing the doors.
He waits.
The winds howl through the temple in victory, in excitement.
He is consistent. He is close.
Another deep inhale as he approaches the doors, savoring the moment not of his success, but of earning the privilege to behold such a beautiful sanctuary.
Reverently, he parts the doors, and this too is a glorious difference between him and his predecessor.
Where before there was a tyrant now stood an acolyte.
He is quiet as he kneels at my altar and his fingers tenderly trail down the melted pillars of my candles— he will reignite them.
His thumb gently rubs my crystals— he will polish them.
He places sweet incense into my censer— he will be my thurifer.
His hand solemnly cups the edge of my empty chalice— he will fill it.
And as he tends to the carnal rite, I come undone. The walls shake, the altar begins to be submerged— and he endures.
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
janainaart
origamiaround
germansingergirl
2087