All this and One More
This is an open letter. It was to be something else, an observation, a goodbye to Lena, and other such things, but a recent post by my less than perfect niece has prompted me to write something all together different. This is not just to her, it also continues to be to others as well, to those that may by name know me, but not by what that I have been, seen and known, time after time, after time.
So more direct, my dear child, you have no right to even begin to understand who I am, as you have no idea who I was. When you were but a thought, or not a thought as the case may have been, I was in the game, and not just a casual bystander, watching and dabbling in the games, but master of the ceremonies, directing the other players, with subtlety that I fear you do not, nor from this vantage point can not understand.
But this then is but a small portion of what you should expect. From the pain and suffering, earned in time, as the toll is paid. Ah, but you want not what is truth, you want not that which is experience, but to think you are in control, my dear peasant. A true princess of the realm from which you hail, you are yet to see the truth, and by the time you do, it may be to late.
Ah, to taste that sweet nectar for a bit, to prove that you are that which you are not. To eat from the pannier of fruit that only waits for those that have earned their wings. Are you ready to fly, to adjust your own perception, to understand the reality that lays before you.
Ah, but I have nothing but jolly retort, for I am not but a jester, no fool, but a jest in the trials and trivia that you know not, as yet.
That is all for now, for to say any more is worthless, and beyond that which will matter not.
So more direct, my dear child, you have no right to even begin to understand who I am, as you have no idea who I was. When you were but a thought, or not a thought as the case may have been, I was in the game, and not just a casual bystander, watching and dabbling in the games, but master of the ceremonies, directing the other players, with subtlety that I fear you do not, nor from this vantage point can not understand.
But this then is but a small portion of what you should expect. From the pain and suffering, earned in time, as the toll is paid. Ah, but you want not what is truth, you want not that which is experience, but to think you are in control, my dear peasant. A true princess of the realm from which you hail, you are yet to see the truth, and by the time you do, it may be to late.
Ah, to taste that sweet nectar for a bit, to prove that you are that which you are not. To eat from the pannier of fruit that only waits for those that have earned their wings. Are you ready to fly, to adjust your own perception, to understand the reality that lays before you.
Ah, but I have nothing but jolly retort, for I am not but a jester, no fool, but a jest in the trials and trivia that you know not, as yet.
That is all for now, for to say any more is worthless, and beyond that which will matter not.
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