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I went down to the beach to contemplate the infinite.
I was going to bring music, but I couldn't find it, and while I was contemplating that, I got 'The Sound of Silence' played at me by the randomiser, and I can take a hint.
While I was looking for the music I put my hand in one of the pockets of my jacket and found the stone I dedicated to Yinepu, and . . . I could not put it down. I wandered the house for a while and found some yarn to string it on so I had my hands left, and hung it around my neck. I kept holding it, fiddling with it, as I walked to the beach, but I wasn't worried about losing it.
The moon is near full and halfway high; I expected the tide to be coming in but not to the seawall, and I was right, though the sand between the edge of the water and the wall was soaked through. The whole night was full of Tefnut, the air soft and damp, actually.
I lit a candle. The wind tried to put it out; I put my bag to shield it from the very slight wind, which promptly shifted.
The Candle and Ma'at
The candle will burn free and pure if allowed, and the scent of it will rise. If I keep it far away from me, it is troubled, anything can deflect it, threaten its light. The candle in the center is better, but it still flickers; it takes the conscious motions of hands to shield it, cup its light, keep it strong. It will burn, it will continue to burn; it will burn well when I care for it.
That was the thing. And the tide will come in, and the tide will go out, and the sound of it will be much the same, and the sea goes on forever. The sea is like a desert in a way, in its infinity and its indifference. But it has its rhythms, its waves, its tides, its neheh, despite the pressing presence of djet within it.
The tide will come in and the tide will go out. There will be waves.
What I do both matters and does not matter; there will be waves whichever way I go.
I do not know if I feel better about the infinite at all.
On the walk home I held the stone in my left hand, up against my heart.
I was going to bring music, but I couldn't find it, and while I was contemplating that, I got 'The Sound of Silence' played at me by the randomiser, and I can take a hint.
While I was looking for the music I put my hand in one of the pockets of my jacket and found the stone I dedicated to Yinepu, and . . . I could not put it down. I wandered the house for a while and found some yarn to string it on so I had my hands left, and hung it around my neck. I kept holding it, fiddling with it, as I walked to the beach, but I wasn't worried about losing it.
The moon is near full and halfway high; I expected the tide to be coming in but not to the seawall, and I was right, though the sand between the edge of the water and the wall was soaked through. The whole night was full of Tefnut, the air soft and damp, actually.
I lit a candle. The wind tried to put it out; I put my bag to shield it from the very slight wind, which promptly shifted.
The Candle and Ma'at
The candle will burn free and pure if allowed, and the scent of it will rise. If I keep it far away from me, it is troubled, anything can deflect it, threaten its light. The candle in the center is better, but it still flickers; it takes the conscious motions of hands to shield it, cup its light, keep it strong. It will burn, it will continue to burn; it will burn well when I care for it.
That was the thing. And the tide will come in, and the tide will go out, and the sound of it will be much the same, and the sea goes on forever. The sea is like a desert in a way, in its infinity and its indifference. But it has its rhythms, its waves, its tides, its neheh, despite the pressing presence of djet within it.
The tide will come in and the tide will go out. There will be waves.
What I do both matters and does not matter; there will be waves whichever way I go.
I do not know if I feel better about the infinite at all.
On the walk home I held the stone in my left hand, up against my heart.
