Let us witness the sky above cities of stone and mind.
What monsters we! We creatures of imagination that caper to tunes of worldliness, what else shall we be called? When any beast bears the spiked fur of dominion and hierarchy, surely it is a monster creeping in the darkness of fear and refusal.
Let us follow the silver moon beyond the city lights.
To make use of the unhuman for our tables and clothes, surely that is the dark empire and not the Kingdom. Only those who refuse love make unwilling use of others for power or pride. It is hatred to call it peace when conflict is quelled by stepping on another’s throat. These are not a predator’s acts, even, but monstrosity. An ever-evolving house of cards built atop the shifting sands, the dark empire only exists by its constant reconstruction.
Let us gather on our wild hills of madness.
Our howls from the verdant hills are not always of blood and battle. When monsters sing, the Children of God are giving praise. The pale and pearly moon worshipped at midnight is still yet Shakti. She is still Mary, mother of God. A sacred heart glows in the adoration and selfless giving of cub to mother monster, of mother monster to cub. When monsters sing in this way, the blindness evaporates from our eyes. When the battle fever becomes a psalm, our choir is as holy as any other.
Let us dive into the bloody pools of our minds and fish our hearts from the mud.
We who strive to control our mortal futures are little diviners practicing prophecy by gazing into muddy pools. We who live in memories and longing for the past forms of this world are ghosts who wander vaporous swamplands. Look up at the shining silver moon, with her halo! Be stirred in breast and mind, and howl, sing! Yes, no matter the darkness, still yet the Beloved is with us, but a turn of the head away. It doesn’t matter whether there is hope, for there is grace.
Let us praise without roles and rules, let us love without rites and rituals.
If we fail, tomorrow morning we shall not speak of this. The werewolves will walk in human form and speak courteously. That is the unwholesomeness and the corruption, the ongoing reconstruction of empire. It is far better to be a wild thing howling at the moon in absolute worship than to be a mask of false pleasantries. When monsters sing, all monstrosity is burned away by the purity of their psalm. But when they walk masked, their ferocity and viciousness is an infection.
Let us howl a wildfire worship and spark a mystic cleansing conflagration.
I sat in meditation, sickened in body by flu, fingers pained by the chill, ears full of strange shrill sounds screaming through the dark. A song of love and light lodged in my throat like a thickened lump of bread, and all the world dissipated into the warmth of the Kingdom.
Let us sing in the night, brothers and sisters.