As a child, I was much more ancient.
Much more a part of a larger whole
where time spread equally in all directions,
where time sat, master of war, god of extent, in all its might.
As a child, I belonged to some kind of ancient caste, a tribe of women and men driven by earth and water, wise and fragile as the corn.
I had, in my pockets, not dreams but memories of simultaneous realities, hand in hand with the internal organs of a faithless religion, of a fateless race.
As a child, I was a creator and a master of matter and words, much less...
much deeper shapes.
As a child, I knew, before my own body. A neglected consequence and a futile vase for words and images, my body grew in disarray, and shapes pressed on vast plains and fields. I had the wisdom of the insecure ugly small things, and the light of waterfalls and sunflower fields I'd take so long to love.
Inside, an elderly painfull immense animal, unwilling to exchange wisdom for bliss, respectful of my people's traditions, faithfull as a greek godess to truth.
In time, I learned pleasure and softness. Time contracted, and with it my veins, giving me migraines and the ability to win mind races. I lost the vastness of the ancient, and gained fast arrows and quick escapes. A survival strategy, and a gift for my heart. The loss of time and wisdom, the gain of pleasure, power and joy, and a light, colorful coat for the winter.
