A Rite of Remembrance
Posted: Sat Mar 11, 2017 6:08 am
A Rite of Remembrance.
Self-indulgence and an easy way to loose one's self.
But today the gloom takes over and today, a shaman will gaze into the glowstone.
A small wooden bowl, engravings carved into it, as familiar as the back of his own hand. He recalls tracing them as a young man, under firm guidance and with ample conviction. This time there are no offerings for the spirits to fill it, instead potent herbs are brought forth.
A larger dose of the mixture would put a man into a dreamless sleep, from which he may never wake, yet a shaman measures carefully. Leaf by leaf, pinch by pinch.
A rite is simple. Ignite the herbs, breathe in the fumes, still your mind and gaze into the glowstone.
Mind still as if it never moved. Thick smoke at the back of the throat. Smell reminding of home, of summer's flowers and of autumn leaves in the woods. Of morning mists, rolling from the hills and of freshly baked bread.
Eyes open now, gaze locked onto a gemstone, large, polished into a perfect sphere. From simple shapes, a vision is now seen. The rite is simple. It doesn't show us what our minds want, instead showing no more and no less than our deepest heart's desires.
Green grass, thick forest, mist rolling over the edge of a lake, whose surface is as still as a mirror's edge. A lone man sits by the shoreline and a single cast tackle disturbs the water's surface. A flock of birds flees from a nearby treeline and there is stillness in the image and a shaman smiles.
Only a word lingered on his lips, as his hand longingly reached for the glowstone and the vision he may never touch; "...brother."
Today he will dream of a world that was before the war, not about what was left after. Today he indulges and his thoughts are hazy. He is lost in a rite that had claimed so many before him.
Self-indulgence and an easy way to loose one's self.
But today the gloom takes over and today, a shaman will gaze into the glowstone.
A small wooden bowl, engravings carved into it, as familiar as the back of his own hand. He recalls tracing them as a young man, under firm guidance and with ample conviction. This time there are no offerings for the spirits to fill it, instead potent herbs are brought forth.
A larger dose of the mixture would put a man into a dreamless sleep, from which he may never wake, yet a shaman measures carefully. Leaf by leaf, pinch by pinch.
A rite is simple. Ignite the herbs, breathe in the fumes, still your mind and gaze into the glowstone.
Mind still as if it never moved. Thick smoke at the back of the throat. Smell reminding of home, of summer's flowers and of autumn leaves in the woods. Of morning mists, rolling from the hills and of freshly baked bread.
Eyes open now, gaze locked onto a gemstone, large, polished into a perfect sphere. From simple shapes, a vision is now seen. The rite is simple. It doesn't show us what our minds want, instead showing no more and no less than our deepest heart's desires.
Green grass, thick forest, mist rolling over the edge of a lake, whose surface is as still as a mirror's edge. A lone man sits by the shoreline and a single cast tackle disturbs the water's surface. A flock of birds flees from a nearby treeline and there is stillness in the image and a shaman smiles.
Only a word lingered on his lips, as his hand longingly reached for the glowstone and the vision he may never touch; "...brother."
Today he will dream of a world that was before the war, not about what was left after. Today he indulges and his thoughts are hazy. He is lost in a rite that had claimed so many before him.