Ripping forth my demons like a hundred angry gnats is an exercise of my true faith.
Clawing them out from within, to fill doubtful air,
Swarming hungrily a thousand times over.
This is one of my only religions.
A self-flagellation – singing the heart songs of dead witches; pagan ancestors from a dozen different clans, across a quarter of Terra under yellow-white Sol.
But my ancestors are all dead, and I am not the witch they were. I do not know their stories.
I do not see honor in my unknowing them; for some claim heritage in pictures and heirlooms.
I only see bonds in the knowing.
I only see belonging in story.
I owe my ancestors nothing. For they’re dead.
And left wanting, I already am. There is no great legacy, no great work, nothing aside from heart songs – that tattoo browbeat of the head that demands sacrifice.
I sing the same heart songs in tribute, but there’s no more reverence.
Deconstruction Of The Self is enough.
Until it is not.
I will be dead then.
And my progeny or lack thereof, will owe me nothing.
Unless I give them more than songs, more than history, more than pictures and heirlooms.
I must give them a legacy.
Great work.
Reasons to exist.
Or they will hunger, devour themselves daily until naught remains but echoes of their struggles.
Singing my heart songs as they battle their own demons – who will surely rise again into, and within future generations.
Too Many Heart Songs.
