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Andy's unless stated, none of these photos were taken by me
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12:19 am - 04.17.04 fiction "he did not come" pt1 A storm raged in the sky, he did not come. Lightening flashed in our faces, burned the trees, he did not come. Rains drowned our crops, flooded our homes, killed our babies, he did not come. The savior of old men, they would speak of him in the temples, in the fields, late at night when we tucked our babies to sleep. He told us he would come, in the stories of long long ago, he told us. Every year the storms came. Every year we prayed to him, we cried to him, we died to him. He did not come. It is said he lived among us, long long ago, it is said. He had babies and crops, the village held him to the sky, to be a good man. The sun shone apon his body, and marked him with the sign. From then on, he could see what the sun saw. And he saw the storms, he saw the death, he bid us to follow him away from the village, into the far off hills, where no one go for ages. He say we find safety there, good soil, good land, a place to raise our babies to the sun. He was a good man. He left us before the cold way came, we harvest what we got, and stay inside by the fires, until the sun returns to bless our crops again. He left us before the cold, he said it was not cold where he was going, that he could see like the sun, that he could see a place where the sun was everywhere for all time. But what of our villiage? This is our home, our life, we said. He said we need not things to remember, he said the land of the sun would hold new memories, of joy and happiness. He said he would come before the storms, he said he would come back for us. Some men built temples to honor him like a god, the temples became like his house had been, a place of joy and warmth. We wrote songs about him, and sang to his memory every night. Then the storms came. They took our songs, they took our temples, they took our babies, and at last they took our village. He did not come. When we had nothing but ruins of land and village, all our memories turned to dust, we cried to him, still he would not come. Some decided to go in search of him. Others wanted to rebuild. Some cursed his name, and the sun. We built our village over the death of his name, his memory. Our crops grew, our babies grew, our village grew, but our hearts slowly died. He did not come.
ask me about pins - 01-02-08
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