A Song of Photons

You are vagabonds, swarming in vast herds for immeasurable stretches of time, passing through every storm and tragedy and miracle the cosmos can throw at you, and all the while you maintain your constants without distraction. Your joints hurt as your mind reaches out to itself from side to side and you wonder how far back the effort goes. Do hunter-gatherers feel at peace with themselves? Or are they too seeking validation through social engineering, periodically raving about spiritual revolution? Each generation has its own efforts to shock itself out of complacency, and as I watch them come and go, I begin to confuse the ocean for the shore.

On Namekia there is a saying: “A wish cannot exceed the power of its granter”. So they seek to expand their power through meditation. The Kzinti do it with war, the Mamani through ritual cannibalism, and the empry of Othomo used science as their augur. But the Kzinti die in battle, the Mamani doners pass nothing on, and the mighty Othominians were consumed by interbreeding when their diaspora lasted longer than they planned.

And what will change in you when you discover the existence of higher realities? Will knowledge of Ascension bring you enlightenment, or will it freeze your civilization with terror? And when the candles are lit among you, will you look to the blood splatter of the Ylias for your salvation and hand them the best of your weapons, when it is you, who are oh so perishable that needs them most? True, the nature of the fetal bloom is such that blood and seed have a curious overlap of skillsets, and so the light-bodied starseeds do seem divine. What I will tell you of them is this: even Imogen was a puppet, or a clump of pollen, depending on how you view her work. In either case, don’t mistake yourself for anything less than what you are, and know that you are not your shell.