Post by ink on Feb 9, 2011 14:20:34 GMT -7
(This is supposed to be read in rhythm.)
This is the first hand account of the revolution leader Eternity Tamerlane. This was her personal record, translated as well as we possibly could. This is the clearest account we have of those times and the revolution.
In this world of mine,
yours,
ours,
I had discovered something
I was not
supposed to.
It was deeply entrenched,
its roots
reaching
into every crevice
of my,
yours,
our life,
society,
children,
mother
and fathers,
and even my,
yours,
our bodies.
It created a culture,
a lifestyle,
a world.
It created a culture,
lifestyle,
world
that held near
unfathomable divisions,
ocean-deep trenches,
that we all cling-clung
to desperately.
History showcased prejudice
born of ignorance,
but,
the human race of now,
our prejudice of a different breed,
where we separate ourselves
into five sectors,
thinking any others than our own
lesser
and insignificant,
and even if
the thoughts of the wise
care to inform us
that to separate,
to despise,
to find others wanting,
is the inherent nature
of these bodies
I do not believe it so.
But we made it so,
that we were split
in five,
some living
their life at the
whims of others,
calling themselves Entertainers,
and think themselves
more beautiful,
more alive
and relaxed
than others.
Some lived their lives
in blood and battle,
insisting to everyone
that they were the strongest,
that there were
no weak
among them
to be capable of
protecting the weak,
and
telling all
that Military is
indomitable.
There are those
who find their lives
in building
and in creating,
crafting everything
of the society,
thinking themselves
the legs the world stands on,
ignoring
when others
call them drones,
bees,
and they know
themselves
as Artisans.
Then,
there are the ones
who value mind
above all else,
believing
that without
their wisdom,
all life would fall
to disrepair
and despair,
sure that the
Politicians
keep the world
spinning.
And then those
impossible
without
incoherently
understandable
knowledge and
equipment,
science masquerading
as magic,
the blood
in their veins,
its users
controlling others
through the ink
on
my
your
our faces,
an ink
that none is without,
that all
are given
moments
after birth,
that stains
the insides of
my
your
our heads
and twists our thoughts,
turning them
unrecognizable,
a monster in
my
your
our
soul.
And the secret I found,
it held me,
you,
us
shackled
to those rules,
decreeing
that children
can only be
introduced to
the world
through
arranged love,
decided through
the sectors that
rule
all.
I myself
was,
has,
and will always be
an anomaly.
My mother was
in the world of
entertainers.
My father was not planned,
someone I heard of
only through
whispered rumors
and secrets.
He was a man of thought,
intelligent and kind,
and
I’ve been told my hair
is his.
My parents found love,
and then my mother
found me,
growing
deep inside her.
I’ve heard that terror
soaked her entire being,
I,
the center.
She fled to the forests,
telling no one.
She had wandered,
fear lead feet deeper
and deeper
into the green,
and when it was time
for me,
she was alone,
isolated from all
except the leaves
and the bark
and the rocks
underfoot.
And when my life began,
it began with her lonely screaming,
bloody
and
alone.
And her terror
and thoughtless flee
left me
with a stigma
I would
come to hate
in the early part
of my life,
and that I
would love
and thank her for
when I found the
absolute truth.
I was born too isolated
to be given the mark,
tattooed
with the tendril
of control
twisting out
from the secret,
and giving those
with their proud,
so-called magic
access
to my heart
and body.
I was never
recorded
in the invisible census,
hiding from the secret’s eyes,
untouchable.
But as a child,
I found myself
isolated,
unable to reap
the benefits,
before I knew
of the tragedy and
poison that
the beloved
ink-scar
represented.
I found myself hating my mother,
a woman that
damned me when young,
but saved me
when I embraced my destiny.
But for my life
leading from
childhood
into that
of a woman’s beginning,
I was as much
their agent
as anyone else.
As a high-class,
cultured
and cultivated
into something
both beautiful and compelling,
I was mindless,
by most standards,
even then.
I was raised
to please anyone
but myself.
And so,
I suppose,
mindless isn’t that
incorrect of an assumption.
But it was not so.
My father had given me
my hair
of almost silver-blonde,
along with the capacity
to create images
out of the barest
of hints,
to logic and reason,
and to craft new
conceptions
only out of
the smoke
and shadows
of my own mind.
And my mother,
she had given me more,
more than invisibility,
more than dark skin
and the lightest green eyes.
She had left me in her place,
learning to entrance,
to will myself
as the whims of others decided.
She left me,
someone who could be
an unnoticed distraction.
I was a
something,
unknown,
unseen,
unrecognizable
in this world.
Not just my coloring,
but my parents,
my life,
my mother’s silver tongue
and my father’s silver hair,
all telling
me that I
am different.
But now I think of it as an omen,
a secret sign that only known to me,
that I am different and
that I am
change.
And finally,
when my childhood came to an end,
and I was auctioned off
in a manner masquerading
of honor,
and I found myself
floating on the currents
of the air,
nestled up
in an airship
captained by
one of the three
high leaders of the military,
a man who commanded
the air itself,
calling himself Rolsef.
And this is how
I found myself,
somehow,
seeing every step
of the known world.
My childhood
had included
learning language after language,
but I found
that the carefully crafter
classroom conversations
had done nothing
for the fast-paced,
slurred,
mumbled,
accented
reality of the world.
This proved to be
incredibly
valuable.
Rolsef had docked
at a small,
dinky,
dingy
port,
as was regulation,
he was the enforcer
and often found himself
barely in one place
for hardly longer than a moment.
I had walked up to him,
and told him,
“I will be out shopping.
I’ll need some money,
and I’ll be back
when I’m back.
And I don’t
require guards,
this place is so poor,
no one would ever
touch me.”
all as-matter-of-fact.
I knew then,
and I know now,
but still,
I don’t care
why he laughed
and simply
let me have my way.
But when I was out,
trying to convince
the old lady
with tanned wrinkles
and misshapen hands
to speak
something,
anything,
resembling what I knew
to be a recognized,
real,
language.
I think
I must have said
something
not-right.
Perhaps,
I insulted her face.
Or maybe,
I said something disagreeable
about her family.
I don’t think
I’ll ever know.
But then,
the docile,
almost servile
people surrounding me,
were furious,
or impassioned,
all I knew,
is that there
was nothing but chaos
on all sides.
There was someone shouting
right next
to my head,
and I shouted
in the natural tongue
I was raised in,
telling him to
shut his mouth,
no one,
no one,
wants to see
those nasty teeth,
as I tried
with weak,
though I hadn’t realized it at the time,
pushing
and shoving
to escape
all the madness
on all sides.
And then,
then,
the boy,
he looked
as though
he had just
received his work tattoo,
a curling design,
its placement
on his chin
giving him away
as an Artisan,
the boy,
he grabbed me,
and drug me out,
despite my desperate thrashing,
and then the worst,
the worst of crimes
to my then arrogant mind.
He placed a hand
on my neck,
pressed,
and held it there
until darkness found me.
I woke
with teeth snarling,
a furious tirade
just about to burst from my throat,
and lunged
at the person nearest to me.
But,
during my stint
in the world of shadows,
the dirty boy
had dragged me
to a room
I later learned
to be headquarters
of some kind,
and slumped me
over a table
and in a chair.
And so,
my furious lunge
ended spectacularly,
and I found my face
getting
intimately
acquainted with the ground.
I was restrained,
and told,
haltingly,
in the language
I had used to
chew out the grungy Artisan
that I
Can ‘ot
exit,
too unhappy
in –
here,
the speaker lapsed
into the language of the land,
and said, “Market.”
I had interrupted,
telling the
vocally clumsy man
in his natural tongue
that I spoke Chretike
perfectly fine,
thank you.
Then,
I was told
I can’t leave,
it’s too dangerous
and I can’t know
of this places’ location,
so I must stay
and listen to the meeting.
I heard
many things
that night.
And I will
never
be
the same.
What I heard,
that furious,
grungy night,
was something
I thought then
my terribly clever
mind had
never
considered.
But,
my heart,
my fickle,
chained heart,
it had whispered
the treason,
puffs of chilled,
frozen breath
against my
soul.
The meeting
the I had found
myself at for no
reasonable reason,
surrounded by people,
I once thought,
far below me,
had placed slithering
murmuring shadows
of blasphemy and
truth
in my mind.
Freedom.
What I thought
was mine,
with wind blowing
through my hair
around the ship
taking me
wherever
it could reach.
But,
no.
Freedom is
love
unrestricted in my heart,
in my body,
not sharply
tethered by
something we have
no control over,
our parents
skills restricting
and confining
to one life.
Freedom is
not being stopped
when you wish
to talk to someone
society wishes
you don’t.
Freedom is
curiosity,
experimenting,
succeeding,
failing,
finding your
love for whatever
it is
in this world,
creating,
changing,
thinking,
loving another,
loving a child.
What I,
you,
we
had,
it was not freedom.
And I began
to think,
considering
once unthought-of
possibilities
and probabilities.
And my mind
heart
spirit
began to ache
as whispers
of treason
danced through
my mind,
casting a spell
over my
senses, changing
warping,
metamorphosing,
everything into
something
else,
and tears
stained my
face salty,
my terror at
the lies,
the raw
untruths of
my entire
existence,
unraveling my
soul into
despair.
I had begged
my mind
heart
spirit
to continue
the lies,
to seal away
my heartrending
fear
desperation
shakingtremblingohhelpmeno.
I tried to
convince myself
of the
fact that
there are no
writhing shadows
of doubt,
that the murmuring
language of leaves
weren’t telling
me to
not live the mask
live true
stand forward,
to
inform
help
liberate.
But the muttering
of the leaves,
followed me,
more persistent than
a portion of
nature should
be,
the leaves
turning to
waves
wind
birds
fire
even,
the crowd’s
residue noise,
the mumbling
of feet.
The leaves
murmuring turned
to a shrieking
shout, soaking
into every
shade and
shadow of
life,
into the
very heartbeat
of the world,
telling me
to
stop hiding,
start living,
search for
the source,
to free
the world.
And eventually,
the fear
subsided,
my heart
turned to
diamond resolve,
and,
I started
listening to
the leaves-turned-world.
This is the first hand account of the revolution leader Eternity Tamerlane. This was her personal record, translated as well as we possibly could. This is the clearest account we have of those times and the revolution.
In this world of mine,
yours,
ours,
I had discovered something
I was not
supposed to.
It was deeply entrenched,
its roots
reaching
into every crevice
of my,
yours,
our life,
society,
children,
mother
and fathers,
and even my,
yours,
our bodies.
It created a culture,
a lifestyle,
a world.
It created a culture,
lifestyle,
world
that held near
unfathomable divisions,
ocean-deep trenches,
that we all cling-clung
to desperately.
History showcased prejudice
born of ignorance,
but,
the human race of now,
our prejudice of a different breed,
where we separate ourselves
into five sectors,
thinking any others than our own
lesser
and insignificant,
and even if
the thoughts of the wise
care to inform us
that to separate,
to despise,
to find others wanting,
is the inherent nature
of these bodies
I do not believe it so.
But we made it so,
that we were split
in five,
some living
their life at the
whims of others,
calling themselves Entertainers,
and think themselves
more beautiful,
more alive
and relaxed
than others.
Some lived their lives
in blood and battle,
insisting to everyone
that they were the strongest,
that there were
no weak
among them
to be capable of
protecting the weak,
and
telling all
that Military is
indomitable.
There are those
who find their lives
in building
and in creating,
crafting everything
of the society,
thinking themselves
the legs the world stands on,
ignoring
when others
call them drones,
bees,
and they know
themselves
as Artisans.
Then,
there are the ones
who value mind
above all else,
believing
that without
their wisdom,
all life would fall
to disrepair
and despair,
sure that the
Politicians
keep the world
spinning.
And then those
impossible
without
incoherently
understandable
knowledge and
equipment,
science masquerading
as magic,
the blood
in their veins,
its users
controlling others
through the ink
on
my
your
our faces,
an ink
that none is without,
that all
are given
moments
after birth,
that stains
the insides of
my
your
our heads
and twists our thoughts,
turning them
unrecognizable,
a monster in
my
your
our
soul.
And the secret I found,
it held me,
you,
us
shackled
to those rules,
decreeing
that children
can only be
introduced to
the world
through
arranged love,
decided through
the sectors that
rule
all.
I myself
was,
has,
and will always be
an anomaly.
My mother was
in the world of
entertainers.
My father was not planned,
someone I heard of
only through
whispered rumors
and secrets.
He was a man of thought,
intelligent and kind,
and
I’ve been told my hair
is his.
My parents found love,
and then my mother
found me,
growing
deep inside her.
I’ve heard that terror
soaked her entire being,
I,
the center.
She fled to the forests,
telling no one.
She had wandered,
fear lead feet deeper
and deeper
into the green,
and when it was time
for me,
she was alone,
isolated from all
except the leaves
and the bark
and the rocks
underfoot.
And when my life began,
it began with her lonely screaming,
bloody
and
alone.
And her terror
and thoughtless flee
left me
with a stigma
I would
come to hate
in the early part
of my life,
and that I
would love
and thank her for
when I found the
absolute truth.
I was born too isolated
to be given the mark,
tattooed
with the tendril
of control
twisting out
from the secret,
and giving those
with their proud,
so-called magic
access
to my heart
and body.
I was never
recorded
in the invisible census,
hiding from the secret’s eyes,
untouchable.
But as a child,
I found myself
isolated,
unable to reap
the benefits,
before I knew
of the tragedy and
poison that
the beloved
ink-scar
represented.
I found myself hating my mother,
a woman that
damned me when young,
but saved me
when I embraced my destiny.
But for my life
leading from
childhood
into that
of a woman’s beginning,
I was as much
their agent
as anyone else.
As a high-class,
cultured
and cultivated
into something
both beautiful and compelling,
I was mindless,
by most standards,
even then.
I was raised
to please anyone
but myself.
And so,
I suppose,
mindless isn’t that
incorrect of an assumption.
But it was not so.
My father had given me
my hair
of almost silver-blonde,
along with the capacity
to create images
out of the barest
of hints,
to logic and reason,
and to craft new
conceptions
only out of
the smoke
and shadows
of my own mind.
And my mother,
she had given me more,
more than invisibility,
more than dark skin
and the lightest green eyes.
She had left me in her place,
learning to entrance,
to will myself
as the whims of others decided.
She left me,
someone who could be
an unnoticed distraction.
I was a
something,
unknown,
unseen,
unrecognizable
in this world.
Not just my coloring,
but my parents,
my life,
my mother’s silver tongue
and my father’s silver hair,
all telling
me that I
am different.
But now I think of it as an omen,
a secret sign that only known to me,
that I am different and
that I am
change.
And finally,
when my childhood came to an end,
and I was auctioned off
in a manner masquerading
of honor,
and I found myself
floating on the currents
of the air,
nestled up
in an airship
captained by
one of the three
high leaders of the military,
a man who commanded
the air itself,
calling himself Rolsef.
And this is how
I found myself,
somehow,
seeing every step
of the known world.
My childhood
had included
learning language after language,
but I found
that the carefully crafter
classroom conversations
had done nothing
for the fast-paced,
slurred,
mumbled,
accented
reality of the world.
This proved to be
incredibly
valuable.
Rolsef had docked
at a small,
dinky,
dingy
port,
as was regulation,
he was the enforcer
and often found himself
barely in one place
for hardly longer than a moment.
I had walked up to him,
and told him,
“I will be out shopping.
I’ll need some money,
and I’ll be back
when I’m back.
And I don’t
require guards,
this place is so poor,
no one would ever
touch me.”
all as-matter-of-fact.
I knew then,
and I know now,
but still,
I don’t care
why he laughed
and simply
let me have my way.
But when I was out,
trying to convince
the old lady
with tanned wrinkles
and misshapen hands
to speak
something,
anything,
resembling what I knew
to be a recognized,
real,
language.
I think
I must have said
something
not-right.
Perhaps,
I insulted her face.
Or maybe,
I said something disagreeable
about her family.
I don’t think
I’ll ever know.
But then,
the docile,
almost servile
people surrounding me,
were furious,
or impassioned,
all I knew,
is that there
was nothing but chaos
on all sides.
There was someone shouting
right next
to my head,
and I shouted
in the natural tongue
I was raised in,
telling him to
shut his mouth,
no one,
no one,
wants to see
those nasty teeth,
as I tried
with weak,
though I hadn’t realized it at the time,
pushing
and shoving
to escape
all the madness
on all sides.
And then,
then,
the boy,
he looked
as though
he had just
received his work tattoo,
a curling design,
its placement
on his chin
giving him away
as an Artisan,
the boy,
he grabbed me,
and drug me out,
despite my desperate thrashing,
and then the worst,
the worst of crimes
to my then arrogant mind.
He placed a hand
on my neck,
pressed,
and held it there
until darkness found me.
I woke
with teeth snarling,
a furious tirade
just about to burst from my throat,
and lunged
at the person nearest to me.
But,
during my stint
in the world of shadows,
the dirty boy
had dragged me
to a room
I later learned
to be headquarters
of some kind,
and slumped me
over a table
and in a chair.
And so,
my furious lunge
ended spectacularly,
and I found my face
getting
intimately
acquainted with the ground.
I was restrained,
and told,
haltingly,
in the language
I had used to
chew out the grungy Artisan
that I
Can ‘ot
exit,
too unhappy
in –
here,
the speaker lapsed
into the language of the land,
and said, “Market.”
I had interrupted,
telling the
vocally clumsy man
in his natural tongue
that I spoke Chretike
perfectly fine,
thank you.
Then,
I was told
I can’t leave,
it’s too dangerous
and I can’t know
of this places’ location,
so I must stay
and listen to the meeting.
I heard
many things
that night.
And I will
never
be
the same.
What I heard,
that furious,
grungy night,
was something
I thought then
my terribly clever
mind had
never
considered.
But,
my heart,
my fickle,
chained heart,
it had whispered
the treason,
puffs of chilled,
frozen breath
against my
soul.
The meeting
the I had found
myself at for no
reasonable reason,
surrounded by people,
I once thought,
far below me,
had placed slithering
murmuring shadows
of blasphemy and
truth
in my mind.
Freedom.
What I thought
was mine,
with wind blowing
through my hair
around the ship
taking me
wherever
it could reach.
But,
no.
Freedom is
love
unrestricted in my heart,
in my body,
not sharply
tethered by
something we have
no control over,
our parents
skills restricting
and confining
to one life.
Freedom is
not being stopped
when you wish
to talk to someone
society wishes
you don’t.
Freedom is
curiosity,
experimenting,
succeeding,
failing,
finding your
love for whatever
it is
in this world,
creating,
changing,
thinking,
loving another,
loving a child.
What I,
you,
we
had,
it was not freedom.
And I began
to think,
considering
once unthought-of
possibilities
and probabilities.
And my mind
heart
spirit
began to ache
as whispers
of treason
danced through
my mind,
casting a spell
over my
senses, changing
warping,
metamorphosing,
everything into
something
else,
and tears
stained my
face salty,
my terror at
the lies,
the raw
untruths of
my entire
existence,
unraveling my
soul into
despair.
I had begged
my mind
heart
spirit
to continue
the lies,
to seal away
my heartrending
fear
desperation
shakingtremblingohhelpmeno.
I tried to
convince myself
of the
fact that
there are no
writhing shadows
of doubt,
that the murmuring
language of leaves
weren’t telling
me to
not live the mask
live true
stand forward,
to
inform
help
liberate.
But the muttering
of the leaves,
followed me,
more persistent than
a portion of
nature should
be,
the leaves
turning to
waves
wind
birds
fire
even,
the crowd’s
residue noise,
the mumbling
of feet.
The leaves
murmuring turned
to a shrieking
shout, soaking
into every
shade and
shadow of
life,
into the
very heartbeat
of the world,
telling me
to
stop hiding,
start living,
search for
the source,
to free
the world.
And eventually,
the fear
subsided,
my heart
turned to
diamond resolve,
and,
I started
listening to
the leaves-turned-world.