The winds, and the wolves howl, O Lord, as You ride forth in the retinue of Your Mother, She in Her chariot, with hair uncovered and trailing behind like a cloak of fine-spun gold to lead the way!
Over the wide Earth, You traverse with Your Mother and Twin, touring all the lands of Your people, and calling the spirits forth to follow in Your train!
So it is each year as Autumn preludes the Winter, as the nights lengthen, and as the leaves begin to turn; that vastness of color, like the sunset in a palate of orange and red!
Lykeios, ride the winds, and we shall shiver at Your passage, while the wild things announce the turning of days in the long months ahead!
O Dread Lord, bare Your teeth, and hear the screeching sounds we make in honor of You; our stomping forewarns the unprepared of Your coming, and of Your going, in the bleakest night!
— Columbine [Aegletia, Day 4]
I see Her there, seated upon the exposed root of a great and aged tree, its leaves turning the colors of blood and fire. She is in Her element, upon Her throne, a visage of civilization still apparent, yet noticeably porous; the act during the feast.
Her host, Her court, all make wide circles within their crowded space, trying to come ever closer to Her, but She is the distance between the stars, and none can traverse the few steps separating them from Her.
In that area, Her Son stands vigil, staring the crowd into submission. He will not allow any to draw near, and delights in the power to instill fear within those who love Her.
She laughs, having been brought to joy by the appearance of Her Daughter, wild and freely dancing with the forest nymphs. They circle Her, and the great tree with hands clasped together.
And Her Son turns to look upon them all, to smile in that sincere way that would cause a mortal heart to stop. And His Sister dares Him with Her haughty eyes.
With one graceful wave of Her delicate arm, the Mother, the Enthroned One, compels the crowd to stillness, while simultaneously inviting Her Son to rule the dance.
And when He takes up His lyre, the forest falls into silence. When He plucks the strings, all the nymphs and spirits swoon. When His voice carries over the tree canopy, all those gathered are entranced.
And She, upon Her throne, is pleased; served sweet water by the creatures of the forest, while nymphs adorn Her golden hair with night-blooming flowers, each as white as the snows which soon will fall.
This is the court of the Dark Mother, this is the feast of the wild things which dwell in the night. This is the host which follows Her over the threshold between Seasons. And this is the stark beauty of life.
Hail to You, Leto, Glorious Mother, and Mistress of Winter’s long nights.
— Columbine [Aegletia, Day 4]
I see into the vast ocean. I dive within the waves. Up and down, they hold no meaning. Sunlight ripples through sleek liquid. I am also this ocean, undulating to the pulse of life’s oldest habitat. I am this ocean of thought. We are all one thought in this ocean.
Now those who see me in this ocean, as I see them, call in emotional ripples, through unimaginable space. Through this ocean, we flow. Our minds are one fluid thought, in this ocean.
This ocean is a drop of water in a greater pond of awareness. This ocean flows into a sea, which is a pond, or a single thought. An idea. This ocean is life. We are the ship of life, sailing through this ocean of tears. Life has been before, and is, and shall be. In this ocean, we drink the tears of life.
Only to drown, in the vast ocean of thought.
We are this ocean of thought, and life, and tears. And we are screaming. Screaming the words which are bound, through us. We are the vessels of this ocean. We take this ocean into ourselves, and we deliver tears and life and thought, to those who remain unsaturated.
We are this ocean of thought. Be mindful of the thoughts crossing this ocean, or be swallowed by them.
This particular vision came to me like a storm, and took me away into it. I have been changed by this vision, and at Apollon’s behest, I share it with you. Perhaps it can be useful, perhaps it is only a rambling mess of words. We shall see.
— Columbine [Day 4]