Friday, November 16, 2012

Far from Magenta

Far from Magenta

L. Edgar Otto    16 November, 2012

Standing on the flat ultraviolet plain called Catastrophe the long necked predator, so vulnerable that evolution would allow such an exaggeration of its forms, felt the freedom of the wide can cooler twilight sky, basked in the spectrum of the warm sun, felt the whispers of spiral starlight outline him while he stalked the dream of being as he took on the icy colors of it all, far from magenta.

He recalled some distant memory, some echo of his early dreams looped to the same ends of the scales of things yet viewed it all subtly from his new wings waiting for others and if he chose flight over the endless plane, his own transcendence as he scryed the infra red shift of small moving things in the shallow sea where life arises as he learned to count the grinding pebbles.

He could not sleep discovering he could make his own light, for he needed the dark to comprehend and feel at ease, step carefully over the larva warm parts of the ocean shelf bottoms of pits and peat and bubbles methane. He became in that dewdrop hoarfrost latent land of confused but unstable balanced dreams the old ibis, a sign and worship carved on stones. tombs, or stored in the heights of pyramids

Refreshed and belly full yet breakfast hungry, with attention to the struggle against the odds of fate and of scarcity he foresaw the others true to light, and where they too were on the way to the search for endurance, beyond the myth of polar stars or twisting gyres some portent dance of auroras
some lesser hearts in the business explained of living for its own sake, awake the acetic austere vanishing of purpose.

He knew then limited as he was to the higher colors in the light, in the world, that the paths to trod by luck were not the beginning or end, and not the endless fall where the worlds under worlds go on without end or come back to heights again. He knew others were not pale variations of himself or in the greater scheme of things beyond existence a million copies of his own dream and feathered skin, so they existed.

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