The Children of the Light

You will never know me, again. Our paths will not cross, again. The vessels that hold us will not occupy the same vector in the physical world we invented for ourselves, you and I, 747. Whatever we are in this. This incarnation, when our meat meets, is not the vital essence of what we were then, in the moment of inception, when we were once one. I know this now. You knew it then. We had this, this meeting in the trough. Though the eyes of the body know not what they behold they do convey the light of which we are all part. Ye are all the children of light, and the children of the day: we are not of the night, nor of darkness. Therefore let us not sleep, as do others; but let us watch and be sober. We are the children of the light. Let no word, no packaging, no form, delude you. What lost and patient soul awaits a rung to its salvation here, in you, a once pelagic bison cowed, brought low, to serve a lesser master, in this, a human form who holds you in a heavy glass that will not be filled, though he poureth mighty waters from the rivers of hells’ many guises into his broken cup?

There was a road, an empty two-lane highway, and I was a rider in the dawn. That sun above us, that day, was a singular sun, and I saw it there, reflected in your eyes. You had your cud. I put my head into the trough, I fained to consume its contents.  A great hunter once told me that the sound of crunching and breaking vegetation will mollify a ruminant. Did you believe this ruse? I think not. I was kneeling in manure listening to the chewing, to the breaking of the hay. I was at the intersection, standing on the doorsill where the two worlds touch. You met me there. A teacher, another light. Years later you reappear in my gallery of moments to teach me again because on that day I was not ready, to meet you where you stood. You seem to be gone. But of course, you were never there.

o O o


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