The Old Magician

The Old Magician

had been around for a long, long while. And to tell the truth wasn’t “old” at all. Because it takes time in order to be old and the old magician didn’t ride along in the time stream. Rather, dabbled a toe in that water of time while manifesting himself in various ways and means. Hadn’t always been an old magician. When things first began a decision had been made. And things kind of got out of hand after that. Magic is simple. Decide how things are; that’s how things are.
The old magician had rolled along, millennia after millennia, creating,  destroying, all the while deciding.
There was that time, the tribes had warred. Great cruelty. The old magician healed, intervened, grew tired of the ceaseless fighting. So he built a religion. Demanded protocol to invoke his power.  But the tribes grew, a civilization formed. A great conflict destroyed the civilization. The old magician quit himself of the game. Made it their fault and washed his hands.
Then there was the time that many magicians gathered in a great cosmos, created by the collision of their creations. A marvelously fiery game ensued. Orbs of energy, each greater than the one before. Each encompassing the other. Duels of furiousness. Honor on the line. Not to be outdone. Trickery resorted to. The old magician came away a winner. But decided that winning by betrayal was foul. He wears that still.
The Old Magician grew weary. He drew himself up, drew himself in and forgot that the universe existed. Wrapped in his own cloud and darkness, like a malevolent caterpillar, he slept. How long? Who knows?
He became again aware of the universe and his attitude was…different.  Decisions, decisions, decisions. How many made, they are magic and potent. They are reality. Devious traps laid, Cunning deals, like Rumpelstiltskin. The Old Magician was feared and the stuff of legend and scary bedtime stories. How many, how long, how far the reach? And then one day he again grew weary. The pendulum shifted, the balance flipped. The Old  Magician grew White and Bright and Famous. Healed the sick, cured the lame and was loved by all.  Even fame and adulation cannot fill the void. He felt the void, he felt the pang, and did-not-know-what-it-was-that-would-fill.
He found himself being a tree. So still, so proud, so stable. Looking out over the forest, watching thunderstorms grow and ebb, cycles of life boiling in the down below, flashes of brief sparkling promptitude.
If one tree, why not three? Why not all? The experience was almost too beautiful to bear. Beautiful shrieking joy of life racing in waves. Soaked in. He embued his essence into the wooded world that covered that planet’s surface.   So why not the entire planet?! Like a dynamo it pulsed. The inner core furious, magma, pressures, the mysteries of crystals, of atoms combining. He carried on, one with the tapestry, jigsaw puzzle of countless pieces, his proud opus.
Advertisements