11-21-2022, 03:45 AM
How would the following days be characterized? Fruitful? Only if eliminating possibilities was bearing fruit. Useful? Only if the days haunting museums and libraries served the purpose of cementing how well the three worked together. Pointless? Yes. Pointless. That was how he characterized it as he trudged along the path, heedless of the knife cold wind that sliced across his face.
Rowan and Valeriya's vision had brought them here....and now it seemed to dry up. It lost its life. Rowan had repeated what she had seen so many times Armande could recite it by heart. It had passed from a visceral real memory of hers to a rote and established one, with all the false certainty that came with that. Repeat a memory enough times and it becomes unquestioned truth, despite it being manufactured and cemented by the retelling.
This was sacred history. This was the gospels. This was holy writ. Unquestioned and unquestionable. Memory no longer played a role. Recitation replaced reality.
It was the danger of myth, the trap of dogma.
For a moment, as he walked along the river's edge, this thought grabbed at him, demanded attention. The danger of belief over memory. He was unsure why.
He held the idea in his head for a moment, examining it from every angle, trying to see why it had seized him so forcefully. The source, his recognition that Rowan's vision, absent revelation from a new source, was now as living and as dead as the sacred words of the Bible or the Vedas or the Popul Vuh. Being uttered and expressed in concrete form- and more importantly, being repeated over and over again- had stripped then of any breathing vitality and connection to their source.
It was an obvious- indeed, basic- observation. And yet its profound clarity in this instance filled him with unease. It was as if the world had shifted under his feet. Foundations he stood upon seemed quicksand for a moment.
But cast about as he might, he could not find the source of the disquiet
Stomping off the snow on his boots, he entered their residence and made his way to their room. They were stuck. They needed more.
Perhaps this time more than just they two. Not that it needed just him. He wasn't thinking he was key. This wasn't insecurity. No.
But Patricus was here. Perhaps with the four of them, something new would be revealed. He'd have to send word, arrange a meeting. Communion in one of the small and holy hovels his Holiness seemed to gravitate to.
He itched, was all he knew. They were stuck and they needed to do something.
Rowan and Valeriya's vision had brought them here....and now it seemed to dry up. It lost its life. Rowan had repeated what she had seen so many times Armande could recite it by heart. It had passed from a visceral real memory of hers to a rote and established one, with all the false certainty that came with that. Repeat a memory enough times and it becomes unquestioned truth, despite it being manufactured and cemented by the retelling.
This was sacred history. This was the gospels. This was holy writ. Unquestioned and unquestionable. Memory no longer played a role. Recitation replaced reality.
It was the danger of myth, the trap of dogma.
For a moment, as he walked along the river's edge, this thought grabbed at him, demanded attention. The danger of belief over memory. He was unsure why.
He held the idea in his head for a moment, examining it from every angle, trying to see why it had seized him so forcefully. The source, his recognition that Rowan's vision, absent revelation from a new source, was now as living and as dead as the sacred words of the Bible or the Vedas or the Popul Vuh. Being uttered and expressed in concrete form- and more importantly, being repeated over and over again- had stripped then of any breathing vitality and connection to their source.
It was an obvious- indeed, basic- observation. And yet its profound clarity in this instance filled him with unease. It was as if the world had shifted under his feet. Foundations he stood upon seemed quicksand for a moment.
But cast about as he might, he could not find the source of the disquiet
Stomping off the snow on his boots, he entered their residence and made his way to their room. They were stuck. They needed more.
Perhaps this time more than just they two. Not that it needed just him. He wasn't thinking he was key. This wasn't insecurity. No.
But Patricus was here. Perhaps with the four of them, something new would be revealed. He'd have to send word, arrange a meeting. Communion in one of the small and holy hovels his Holiness seemed to gravitate to.
He itched, was all he knew. They were stuck and they needed to do something.