Chapter Sixty Eight: Gifts

"There was a silly bird called a phoenix

back before Christ, every few hundred years

he built a pyre and burnt himself up.

He must have been the first cousin to Man.

But every time he burnt himself up he sprung

out of the ashes, he got himself born all over

again. And it looks like we're doing the same

thing, over and over, but we've got on

damn thing the phoenix never had. We know

the damn silly thing we just did.

We know all the damn silly things we have

done for a thousand years and as long as

we know that and always have it around

where we can see it, someday we'll stop making

the goddamn funeral pyres and jumping

in the middle of them. We pick up a few more

people that remember every generation."

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

There are many reasons for something to exist.

Maybe it was not planned, but involuntary.

An object is shaped by the hands that made it.

In the direction of his hands, the mud shapes into valuable pottery.

But did the soil give its consent?

To make it a thing of art, to be appreciated by those beholden with an eye for beauty?

And did it even give its permission? To make it useful? Will not the cursed land make an appeal?

Or does it even make an apology for the way the mud became an art?

Unapologetically, it allows the hands to shape it.

The day goes by, and the soil is a work in progress.

It is not an involuntary act, but a gift.

The present moment, the present job, the present riches.

Despite the magnitude notwithstanding, life reveals itself.

From a simple mud a new creation has risen to become as it should be.

Beautiful. Courageous. Not unfamiliar to pain.

And there in the process, a simple gratitude is made. The gift becomes a pleasant feeling.

The form does not care.

To the most organized thought, all circumstances conspire for the good in order to define the clarity of salvation.

It does not matter if it only exists in the mind.

Too.

No one doubts its value.

When someone is moved by love, it shows.

For the mother of all verbs is powerful.

It cooperates with the consequences of nature, good or bad. It simply blends.

Unwillingly, a soul takes its desired form.

As uniquely as it is, the result becomes voluntary.

And there you go, a creation of art is exposed.

The beauty, then, transcends all boundaries.

Because the aesthetic has been clear.

The soul recognizes its natural fruits.

It wipes out the dark clouds for the eyes to see.

When the tears flow, and the rain has stopped, the horizon becomes clear.

A beautiful sky.

The wonder of nature.

It cannot be housed in a single purview, because it is a gift.

Nature is more generous than we actually think.

If we allow it to do its work, the darkness disappears. The storm will pass.

And the path is made clear.

A predestination.

A chosen destiny.

Whether a human being or a Werewolf, the substance is the same. No form shall ever be an impediment to the many causes.

Because nature is generous, and it is the concept of property that limits its philosophy.

But who could blame them?

There are many thieves in this world, and widespread looting produces chaos.

That is how the world came to be.

There are many human beings who are much worse than the monsters we fear.

It starts with the mob.

And the intention to rule.

To terrorize.

To sow fear.

Maybe a chilling perspective, and the most blatant deceit.

They propagate ideas designed to manipulate the good natured self.

Of the human person. Fiercely.

Instead, a monster is bred, in the intricacies of the mind, hate grows.

Slowly, but surely.

Unapologetically.

The present does not become a gift in this sense but an accountability arises.

For the past crimes that had nothing to do with the kindness of people.

They rebel from the authority of love.

To infuse hateful character.

To desensitize murder. Or looting.

It clearly defies generosity, and the purpose of fine art.

Of literature. Of poems. Of the prose.

Including all the technical papers.

The use of science and technology.

It was given with a faint gleam of hope.

In the harshness of life, they are obliged to listen through the exploitation of poverty.

One by one, their minds lose control.

They are manipulated. Almost like robots with the switches they have made.

Inside the mind. Lurking. Directing.

Totally. Absolutely. Without escape.

It is more than a name to fear the invisible evil.

Even the Werewolves are not scary anymore.

Because the real monsters breed in the sacred grounds. In the said temple of life.

The monsters are inside of us, as it corrupts the fragile soul.

And the only way to escape its grasp is to starve it to death.

When pain becomes an offering, the monsters weaken. They are left with no greed to feed on.

As the fire burns and consumes, a phoenix arises. Confidently. Surely.

Then, the angels will call the creatures.

Back into safety.

Back from where Atlantis also came to be.

And, ultimately, back in the arms of the Magic of Christmas.

Slowly, but surely.

It will come running from the edge.

x----------x

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