Life has dragged you along a raggedy track belonging to the wolf – a long-neglected landscape, gathering the fur and feathers and bones of dry, dusty and archived myth, glamouring it anew in garments of mist and hedge-rose, the silver fleck of black-muscled salmon in the pool beneath the gnarled and ancient hazel. The roan hide of a many-tined stag, trumpeting from the far glen that he is back from the brink.
I’m alive to recognize your isolation and, once seen, to then conjure the word-witchery that I know can show you home. To remind you to be god. I’ve been death’s companion since I was born, you know, but he waited like a gentleman. “Here,” he said softly, when I was old enough for it, “have a pen, little girl. let’s see what you can do if I let you stay a while.”
Wasn’t any god then, Wasn’t any god for years. Wasn’t any god till I knew what a god isn’t. Till I recognized a god in the way the weather told the truth. Till I realized it could be anything, any one of you, just as long as I kept my eyes peeled and heard you.
And I’ve got my work cut out for me to remind you of the fact that you are gods. What a fucking responsibility is that for you? That all of you make the picture bigger. Just like mountains. Just like sand. Just like air and yesterday.
I’ll live doing it, die trying.