Boom. Boom-boom-boom. - Beginning
Boom. Boom-boom-boom. - Middle
Boom. Boom-boom-boom.- The End
Blown to bits, and reforming, I shall never die. My being is that of everything that I contain, and even that of which comes from the far outside. Recycled through me is life everlasting, for as long as I live, life will flourish.
A common phrase is shared by a certain species, one that has been able to manipulate myself for the greater good, so they may flourish all the more than any other species in the world. When grouped together, a phrase floats through the air, vibrating the tiny particles that make up the universe.
“If these walls could talk, they’d have stories to tell.”
Such a phrase is true even for me. I may not and cannot communicate on a level the beings that inhabit the land do, but I have stories that I share as well. The stories of many, the rise and fall of everything, and the beginning of the new are only a few of the many passages I may speak of. Such a land is filled with many treasures, hopes, disgusts, and the rises of misfortunes and fortunes alike. Ah, I cannot fully explain the extremely profound number of coincidences I’ve described. Since infancy, my life has been that of wonder, and that of life.
The story I shall share does not carry along with it what most would call a happy ending. I am not The Giving Tree in this tale, but instead, I am the North Star. I’ve only felt the battles that have taken place, never interacting with the parties at hand. Such a story ensued not very long ago, for, as you must know, a few hundred years is nothing to me. Flying through the heavens at a speed unknown to most has allowed time to almost cease to exist.
“There is much talk. And I have listened. Through rock and metal and time. Now I shall talk, and you shall listen.” (Bungie Studios, Halo 2)
Taken to a far away place, but yet a place in which is so very comfortable to every thing and every one. Each piece of their being has been within this area before, followed its forever churning waters, been tossed and turned, been dead and alive here. An innumerable amount of particles have flowed through this current of life once before, and shall once again, for as long as I am alive.
And again several beings pass through these warm waters I call my own, in search of a far away land. As such they see not the violent surge in the air, or the torturous feel of the land ahead, but feel only their own needs of self-satisfaction and fulfillment. Ignoring the natural occurrences of the way things should be, the unnamed men travel onwards, never stopping to smell the odd smell lingering in the air that is my own. Never once believing they may have taken a wrong turn, but instead, crossing over a multitude of lines, to find their own ways to their own goals: those of theirs and of my own. Materialistic objects not meant for any true value, but are just being. Sparkling objects of rarity scarcely brought about. Their only value is held within the fact that they are not everywhere. The hidden is truly the most marvelous.
An unexpected turn of events will berate these young travelers, causing turmoil and grief not present in a common cycle. Yet they will travel on, coming upon a group of strangers whom they may use to their advantage. A rubber band tightening over time, these new uneducated strangers will look to these travelers as gods, but in a way that a rubber band breaks, the forces of both nations may indeed crumble in aspects unknown to the travelers, but both will fall in certain ways.
Direct assault cannot work against these strangers, for they are as numerous as they are ferocious. Indirect routes and use of trickery are some of the few tactics these travelers will use. Surroundings nations of these strangers in the new world will be of great aid, harboring for the travelers their necessities to live. The necessities that I myself provide every cycle.
The feel of new beings present upon my soil causes a shiver of extreme proportions to shake the very spirit of this North Star. For I know as I travel along my route in the heavens, so will these travelers force themselves into the strangers’ presence, causing the downfall of everything they ever knew and held to be true. But this shiver is not only for that mere fact, for I know it is to happen. The shiver is one of such magnitude because of the betrayal of a people.
These travelers have yet to confront the strangers face to face. Tales have been heard. Journeys have been made, but these travelers have only seen one face of their victims. Humorously, this face had long ago shed her strange skin, as she forcibly departed from her hometown. A princess some would call her, others only nobility. This woman, as she is called, spoke a different way than these travelers. Her tongue turned about differently, yet her words meant the same. It took another man, whose name echoes through the ages. A past traveler, broken on a piece of a far away place, stranded to learn the tongues of the strangers. Spoken by name only by few, the vibrations all carried the same message: Gerónimo de Aguilar.
A traveler unlike the others, yet at the same time, lusting for the same goals the travelers would forever search for. A man among men that would soon fade from existence, yet neither the strangers nor the travelers could ever realize that fact. A veil of falsehood damaged any kind of thought they may have had lingering in their mind. One goal, one mind, yet many causalities would this man cause. A language barrier saves and kills many.
And as they travel on, through the familiar waters that they have grown to adore, a type of weariness begins to brew within the cabins of every man’s heart. Although not fully alone in this world, for they are one traveler among many, a sense of homesickness would start to set in. Not only do they miss their home, they miss an organization of what should have been. Accustomed to the life style of following an order, when a rule becomes severed, heads begin to roll. For their captain may no longer fully call himself a traveler, for he has broken the leash his neck had been restrained by for his own glory and well being. Understanding a broken command, jumping aboard the land in the sea, he became distant from the rest, but never let his burning fire to die down to settle his own rolling head. A name that is synonymous with the abolishment of a nation, he has never been forgotten through the ages. Like many bells rung at the same moment, the ears become overwhelmed with hearing and begin to cry. Hernando Cortez is the bells that do not allow the ears to hear any longer, as they become heavy and die.
The strangers have yet to understand the magnitude of the situation at hand, for their ears cannot and have not heard of the many travelers headed their way. But as the travelers arrive on the shorelines that the two beings have shared in the earliest bits of time, their eyes bestow upon their brains a majestic beauty never understood before by the strangers. Eyes glowing full of hope and confusion, they can no longer move, like a deer in head lights, for they fear the worst, but hope for the best. And at last, the travelers speak to them, but they know not what is said, and again a barrier of tongues prohibits movement for some time. And slowly coming to terms with a situation at their fingertips, they slowly move their lips to speak with the stranger that does not hold strange anymore to the travelers. Traveling through the not so strange stranger, into the ears of the lost traveler, and finally to the understanding of the bell man himself, communication at once becomes final. And so does the coming of the beginning of the end.
Yet never do they believe this man is anything more than their God. A being approaching them from the sun is all they require to believe they have been blessed. A God of their own left the same as he has come, and fulfilling that prophecy has allowed their souls peace. For a soul is not one that is anything tangible, nor is it intangible, it is a sense of being fine with yourself. So, as their souls became pure from the blessings of their seeming God approaching them and speaking through them, a curious sense of fulfillment for themselves, I, and the false idol that stood before them set in, and never left their bodies. Still today the song rings clear for the amazing being they called their love to: Quetzalcoatl.
And again moments of seeming to be true forever cloud the eyes of many. For the ruler of the strange brings many gifts to the bell man himself, for an honest belief that the bell man is the God forever foretold to return to rule his kingdom. A gift, a human gift, of course, is not always true, as this ruler does not want the bell man to insist through his lands. This ruler wants the bell man to go away, to return from whence he came, for only he understands what is to come if the bell man insists: the realization that all will change, and that nothing can remain the same. But he has no good intention for his people, but only for himself. The ruler of the strange and the bell man share much more than they believe, as ages apart cannot do away with the many buildings of fear and insecurity. If the bell man is to fulfill his prophecy, the ruler of the strange must forevermore give up his title of ruler of the strange and for once in his life, become nothing more than his people. A scary tale to tell for the ruler of the strange, but one of absolute and honest truth.
The travelers move on through the strangers’ assumed ownership and into the rivals’ land. The rivals grasp upon the outer edges of the strangers’ boarder causing sparks to bombard both peoples. A spark so blinding it blinds both parties from seeing the harmony that could allow ease to flow over their people at any moment. The rivals could easily be crushed by the masses of the strange, yet they exist still upon my face. Such an odd relationship between the rivals and the strangers. Yet the rivals’ names shall always be imprinted upon my past, those that exist now and forever shall call them Tlaxcalteca.
Yet the bell man never stood on one side of the fence post. Everywhere at once, he stood atop the fence, across the fence, under the fence, and in the fence. Both the rivals and the strangers knew not what to do, both wanting the presence of the travelers and their wandering ideas. So the bell man followed through with both questions, sending pieces of himself to each place he was wanted, but taking with him the rivals to the strangers most sacred land.
As if the universe began to laugh at the confusion the bell man had brought among the peoples of strange and rival, a sneaky situation was brought to the bell man’s feet, and he began to scream.
“And then came a sound. Distant first, it grew into castrophany so immense it could be heard far away in space. There were no screams. There was no time. The mountain called Monkey had spoken. There was only fire. And then, nothing.” (The Gorillaz, Fire Coming Out of a Monkey’s Head)
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Like the warm waters of before, the moist ground teems with life. From the insect to the parrot far above, everything grows within me. On the same level, everything dies within me. Usually, such things are natural, never out of the league of anything more than food or natural causes. Yet, this species that wrecks havoc so upon me has brought a new kind of a death into life. One of no reason, for they do not need to eat, nor do they need to be the natural cause, they just are. And yet they feel they must kill, for killing is a sport to them.
The ruler of the strange surely heard of the news of his poor people. He knew what he wrought when his orders were sent out. Still wondering through ages if such a task should have been rethought or recalled, the ruler of the strange still allows for his soul to weep over what it is he believed he had done. So, when the bell man brought his fellow people to the stranger’s most private area, he had no choice but to appear with open arms.
A monkey in a cage is what the ruler of the strange led himself to be. Shackles and chains and enough food to be fed were all he had. From riches to rags, or so the saying should go, the ruler of the strange was not the ruler of the strange from that point forward. He was only the strange, both to the travelers and to his own people. The travelers twisted the strangers, twisted their minds and souls, into disowning their ruler. And at last when the former ruler of the strange came to his former people, his life was to never be cherished again.
And the people could not stop. A life once ended must be ended again for the hardships they faced. And as the bell man knew his bells held no power for him here, he fled. All the travelers fled to the rivals’ place of safety, but because one life ended was not every life ended to the strange, many more were shed. And shed they would be forever in time, for their conscious would never see again.
“Run, rabbit run.” (Pink Floyd, Breathe)
On my skin I felt no more running feet. I felt no more dying people. I felt no more yelling corpses. I felt wet. The bell man for a moment was not the bell man. A serene sound escaped his eyes, and struck into me with the gentlest glow. It was a type of mourning never felt before by the bell man, and his bells never sounded so sad. His eyes turned natural for once in the short time he arose to become something more than a traveler. And he began to weep, next to a tree; the tree that should have been The Giving Tree.
And as life had been taken away by the strangers, for not even one life could do away the hardships they had faced, the travelers too had to take lives. And take lives they would do. Forever would they knock cannons into the strangers’ most precious area, taking with them the lives of the people who should not have died. For dying should be that of necessity, and the taking of one being’s life just because is no reason to kill indeed. Even I, the circle of death and life, understand that.
Boom. Boom-boom-boom. - Middle
Boom. Boom-boom-boom.- The End
Blown to bits, and reforming, I shall never die. My being is that of everything that I contain, and even that of which comes from the far outside. Recycled through me is life everlasting, for as long as I live, life will flourish.
A common phrase is shared by a certain species, one that has been able to manipulate myself for the greater good, so they may flourish all the more than any other species in the world. When grouped together, a phrase floats through the air, vibrating the tiny particles that make up the universe.
“If these walls could talk, they’d have stories to tell.”
Such a phrase is true even for me. I may not and cannot communicate on a level the beings that inhabit the land do, but I have stories that I share as well. The stories of many, the rise and fall of everything, and the beginning of the new are only a few of the many passages I may speak of. Such a land is filled with many treasures, hopes, disgusts, and the rises of misfortunes and fortunes alike. Ah, I cannot fully explain the extremely profound number of coincidences I’ve described. Since infancy, my life has been that of wonder, and that of life.
The story I shall share does not carry along with it what most would call a happy ending. I am not The Giving Tree in this tale, but instead, I am the North Star. I’ve only felt the battles that have taken place, never interacting with the parties at hand. Such a story ensued not very long ago, for, as you must know, a few hundred years is nothing to me. Flying through the heavens at a speed unknown to most has allowed time to almost cease to exist.
“There is much talk. And I have listened. Through rock and metal and time. Now I shall talk, and you shall listen.” (Bungie Studios, Halo 2)
Taken to a far away place, but yet a place in which is so very comfortable to every thing and every one. Each piece of their being has been within this area before, followed its forever churning waters, been tossed and turned, been dead and alive here. An innumerable amount of particles have flowed through this current of life once before, and shall once again, for as long as I am alive.
And again several beings pass through these warm waters I call my own, in search of a far away land. As such they see not the violent surge in the air, or the torturous feel of the land ahead, but feel only their own needs of self-satisfaction and fulfillment. Ignoring the natural occurrences of the way things should be, the unnamed men travel onwards, never stopping to smell the odd smell lingering in the air that is my own. Never once believing they may have taken a wrong turn, but instead, crossing over a multitude of lines, to find their own ways to their own goals: those of theirs and of my own. Materialistic objects not meant for any true value, but are just being. Sparkling objects of rarity scarcely brought about. Their only value is held within the fact that they are not everywhere. The hidden is truly the most marvelous.
An unexpected turn of events will berate these young travelers, causing turmoil and grief not present in a common cycle. Yet they will travel on, coming upon a group of strangers whom they may use to their advantage. A rubber band tightening over time, these new uneducated strangers will look to these travelers as gods, but in a way that a rubber band breaks, the forces of both nations may indeed crumble in aspects unknown to the travelers, but both will fall in certain ways.
Direct assault cannot work against these strangers, for they are as numerous as they are ferocious. Indirect routes and use of trickery are some of the few tactics these travelers will use. Surroundings nations of these strangers in the new world will be of great aid, harboring for the travelers their necessities to live. The necessities that I myself provide every cycle.
The feel of new beings present upon my soil causes a shiver of extreme proportions to shake the very spirit of this North Star. For I know as I travel along my route in the heavens, so will these travelers force themselves into the strangers’ presence, causing the downfall of everything they ever knew and held to be true. But this shiver is not only for that mere fact, for I know it is to happen. The shiver is one of such magnitude because of the betrayal of a people.
These travelers have yet to confront the strangers face to face. Tales have been heard. Journeys have been made, but these travelers have only seen one face of their victims. Humorously, this face had long ago shed her strange skin, as she forcibly departed from her hometown. A princess some would call her, others only nobility. This woman, as she is called, spoke a different way than these travelers. Her tongue turned about differently, yet her words meant the same. It took another man, whose name echoes through the ages. A past traveler, broken on a piece of a far away place, stranded to learn the tongues of the strangers. Spoken by name only by few, the vibrations all carried the same message: Gerónimo de Aguilar.
A traveler unlike the others, yet at the same time, lusting for the same goals the travelers would forever search for. A man among men that would soon fade from existence, yet neither the strangers nor the travelers could ever realize that fact. A veil of falsehood damaged any kind of thought they may have had lingering in their mind. One goal, one mind, yet many causalities would this man cause. A language barrier saves and kills many.
And as they travel on, through the familiar waters that they have grown to adore, a type of weariness begins to brew within the cabins of every man’s heart. Although not fully alone in this world, for they are one traveler among many, a sense of homesickness would start to set in. Not only do they miss their home, they miss an organization of what should have been. Accustomed to the life style of following an order, when a rule becomes severed, heads begin to roll. For their captain may no longer fully call himself a traveler, for he has broken the leash his neck had been restrained by for his own glory and well being. Understanding a broken command, jumping aboard the land in the sea, he became distant from the rest, but never let his burning fire to die down to settle his own rolling head. A name that is synonymous with the abolishment of a nation, he has never been forgotten through the ages. Like many bells rung at the same moment, the ears become overwhelmed with hearing and begin to cry. Hernando Cortez is the bells that do not allow the ears to hear any longer, as they become heavy and die.
The strangers have yet to understand the magnitude of the situation at hand, for their ears cannot and have not heard of the many travelers headed their way. But as the travelers arrive on the shorelines that the two beings have shared in the earliest bits of time, their eyes bestow upon their brains a majestic beauty never understood before by the strangers. Eyes glowing full of hope and confusion, they can no longer move, like a deer in head lights, for they fear the worst, but hope for the best. And at last, the travelers speak to them, but they know not what is said, and again a barrier of tongues prohibits movement for some time. And slowly coming to terms with a situation at their fingertips, they slowly move their lips to speak with the stranger that does not hold strange anymore to the travelers. Traveling through the not so strange stranger, into the ears of the lost traveler, and finally to the understanding of the bell man himself, communication at once becomes final. And so does the coming of the beginning of the end.
Yet never do they believe this man is anything more than their God. A being approaching them from the sun is all they require to believe they have been blessed. A God of their own left the same as he has come, and fulfilling that prophecy has allowed their souls peace. For a soul is not one that is anything tangible, nor is it intangible, it is a sense of being fine with yourself. So, as their souls became pure from the blessings of their seeming God approaching them and speaking through them, a curious sense of fulfillment for themselves, I, and the false idol that stood before them set in, and never left their bodies. Still today the song rings clear for the amazing being they called their love to: Quetzalcoatl.
And again moments of seeming to be true forever cloud the eyes of many. For the ruler of the strange brings many gifts to the bell man himself, for an honest belief that the bell man is the God forever foretold to return to rule his kingdom. A gift, a human gift, of course, is not always true, as this ruler does not want the bell man to insist through his lands. This ruler wants the bell man to go away, to return from whence he came, for only he understands what is to come if the bell man insists: the realization that all will change, and that nothing can remain the same. But he has no good intention for his people, but only for himself. The ruler of the strange and the bell man share much more than they believe, as ages apart cannot do away with the many buildings of fear and insecurity. If the bell man is to fulfill his prophecy, the ruler of the strange must forevermore give up his title of ruler of the strange and for once in his life, become nothing more than his people. A scary tale to tell for the ruler of the strange, but one of absolute and honest truth.
The travelers move on through the strangers’ assumed ownership and into the rivals’ land. The rivals grasp upon the outer edges of the strangers’ boarder causing sparks to bombard both peoples. A spark so blinding it blinds both parties from seeing the harmony that could allow ease to flow over their people at any moment. The rivals could easily be crushed by the masses of the strange, yet they exist still upon my face. Such an odd relationship between the rivals and the strangers. Yet the rivals’ names shall always be imprinted upon my past, those that exist now and forever shall call them Tlaxcalteca.
Yet the bell man never stood on one side of the fence post. Everywhere at once, he stood atop the fence, across the fence, under the fence, and in the fence. Both the rivals and the strangers knew not what to do, both wanting the presence of the travelers and their wandering ideas. So the bell man followed through with both questions, sending pieces of himself to each place he was wanted, but taking with him the rivals to the strangers most sacred land.
As if the universe began to laugh at the confusion the bell man had brought among the peoples of strange and rival, a sneaky situation was brought to the bell man’s feet, and he began to scream.
“And then came a sound. Distant first, it grew into castrophany so immense it could be heard far away in space. There were no screams. There was no time. The mountain called Monkey had spoken. There was only fire. And then, nothing.” (The Gorillaz, Fire Coming Out of a Monkey’s Head)
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Like the warm waters of before, the moist ground teems with life. From the insect to the parrot far above, everything grows within me. On the same level, everything dies within me. Usually, such things are natural, never out of the league of anything more than food or natural causes. Yet, this species that wrecks havoc so upon me has brought a new kind of a death into life. One of no reason, for they do not need to eat, nor do they need to be the natural cause, they just are. And yet they feel they must kill, for killing is a sport to them.
The ruler of the strange surely heard of the news of his poor people. He knew what he wrought when his orders were sent out. Still wondering through ages if such a task should have been rethought or recalled, the ruler of the strange still allows for his soul to weep over what it is he believed he had done. So, when the bell man brought his fellow people to the stranger’s most private area, he had no choice but to appear with open arms.
A monkey in a cage is what the ruler of the strange led himself to be. Shackles and chains and enough food to be fed were all he had. From riches to rags, or so the saying should go, the ruler of the strange was not the ruler of the strange from that point forward. He was only the strange, both to the travelers and to his own people. The travelers twisted the strangers, twisted their minds and souls, into disowning their ruler. And at last when the former ruler of the strange came to his former people, his life was to never be cherished again.
And the people could not stop. A life once ended must be ended again for the hardships they faced. And as the bell man knew his bells held no power for him here, he fled. All the travelers fled to the rivals’ place of safety, but because one life ended was not every life ended to the strange, many more were shed. And shed they would be forever in time, for their conscious would never see again.
“Run, rabbit run.” (Pink Floyd, Breathe)
On my skin I felt no more running feet. I felt no more dying people. I felt no more yelling corpses. I felt wet. The bell man for a moment was not the bell man. A serene sound escaped his eyes, and struck into me with the gentlest glow. It was a type of mourning never felt before by the bell man, and his bells never sounded so sad. His eyes turned natural for once in the short time he arose to become something more than a traveler. And he began to weep, next to a tree; the tree that should have been The Giving Tree.
And as life had been taken away by the strangers, for not even one life could do away the hardships they had faced, the travelers too had to take lives. And take lives they would do. Forever would they knock cannons into the strangers’ most precious area, taking with them the lives of the people who should not have died. For dying should be that of necessity, and the taking of one being’s life just because is no reason to kill indeed. Even I, the circle of death and life, understand that.