Ma-tek
05-05-2005, 23:27
Once, long ago, upon a lonely plain, a child was born to a mother who did not survive that birth; alone, that child might have, and possibly should have perished.
Yet she did not.
Once, not so long ago, yet still beyond the depths of our clear perception of time, shrouded in the mists of the past, upon a mountain, a child was born to a mother who should not have survived that birth; alone, she might not have, and possibly would have certainly perished; yet she did not.
She did not for she had aid that day; the girl who ought have died but lived ensured that he who became a man who ought have lived but died grew up with a mother; yet, in part, we leap far ahead in the tale, for I fear I may falter ere the end.
I am Anton Maximillian, yet by another name was I once known; by many names, echoing back through the years; many lips have uttered many names, and many times many has my head turned, and wondered, for a name which is not my own and yet once was has again been uttered.
The past continuously echoes the future.
I was that man upon the mountain, who is dead but lives, and who ought to have lived but shall shortly die. I do not remember my name, for my memory has failed me many many times; and although I remember faintly the days of which I speak, I cannot say with certainty that the truth is in the telling.
Yet I shall try.
Once, many long centuries ago, I was born. My father was a Roman; my mother, a Spaniard, taken against her will by a dangerous man who was slain the following year in battle; a death likely deserved, if not desirous to my heart, even looking back.
I did not know the face of my father; I was born when he was gone, but not yet dead. The news of his death reached us barely with any certainty; and, for what reason I shall never know, my mother wept upon her hands and knees for his loss.
The heart, linguist of all linguists, sings songs only the owner can understand.
I was raised in what is today - I know not. My memory fails me. It was once Spain; Sevilla is the name by which I now know what was once my home. We had a beautiful place in which to live; a kindly lady older than my mother took us in, gave us shelter, a place to live and lay our heads at night, when the toils of day had tired us.
She did not require that we work; she was, by virtue of her merchant husband (a Roman who yearned not for Rome) very well-to-do, although often was he away.
Yet it was he who taught me much; I had three parents. In this, I was lucky.
Yet my lives stretched on for many years; many, countless years. Cursed and blessed by the hand of-
The Elves and the Nenyar would have that name as Eru; yet still I cannot find clarity. May He forgive, should it be required; although I find I cannot speak those words with true feeling.
Not yet. Perhaps clarity will come, at the end.
But these are the writings - the dictatings - of a man too old to remember his earliest days beyond fond, hazy shadows that lurk beyond a veil; memory can be so fickle.
I am left to wonder: what is it that makes the smell of olive oil so appealing? What memory is at the root? Yet although the memory that fires my mind is still triggered by that scent - I recall it not. I take comfort that some part of me remembers everything, without fail; yet I yearn that that part should be that which now speaks.
The heart can know the path, but feet must finally tread it.
These are the writings of my heart, should it be willing to unleash them; these are the tales of my days, should it be willing to remember them; and this the story of my great repentance - should your eyes and ears be willing to accept it.
Yet she did not.
Once, not so long ago, yet still beyond the depths of our clear perception of time, shrouded in the mists of the past, upon a mountain, a child was born to a mother who should not have survived that birth; alone, she might not have, and possibly would have certainly perished; yet she did not.
She did not for she had aid that day; the girl who ought have died but lived ensured that he who became a man who ought have lived but died grew up with a mother; yet, in part, we leap far ahead in the tale, for I fear I may falter ere the end.
I am Anton Maximillian, yet by another name was I once known; by many names, echoing back through the years; many lips have uttered many names, and many times many has my head turned, and wondered, for a name which is not my own and yet once was has again been uttered.
The past continuously echoes the future.
I was that man upon the mountain, who is dead but lives, and who ought to have lived but shall shortly die. I do not remember my name, for my memory has failed me many many times; and although I remember faintly the days of which I speak, I cannot say with certainty that the truth is in the telling.
Yet I shall try.
Once, many long centuries ago, I was born. My father was a Roman; my mother, a Spaniard, taken against her will by a dangerous man who was slain the following year in battle; a death likely deserved, if not desirous to my heart, even looking back.
I did not know the face of my father; I was born when he was gone, but not yet dead. The news of his death reached us barely with any certainty; and, for what reason I shall never know, my mother wept upon her hands and knees for his loss.
The heart, linguist of all linguists, sings songs only the owner can understand.
I was raised in what is today - I know not. My memory fails me. It was once Spain; Sevilla is the name by which I now know what was once my home. We had a beautiful place in which to live; a kindly lady older than my mother took us in, gave us shelter, a place to live and lay our heads at night, when the toils of day had tired us.
She did not require that we work; she was, by virtue of her merchant husband (a Roman who yearned not for Rome) very well-to-do, although often was he away.
Yet it was he who taught me much; I had three parents. In this, I was lucky.
Yet my lives stretched on for many years; many, countless years. Cursed and blessed by the hand of-
The Elves and the Nenyar would have that name as Eru; yet still I cannot find clarity. May He forgive, should it be required; although I find I cannot speak those words with true feeling.
Not yet. Perhaps clarity will come, at the end.
But these are the writings - the dictatings - of a man too old to remember his earliest days beyond fond, hazy shadows that lurk beyond a veil; memory can be so fickle.
I am left to wonder: what is it that makes the smell of olive oil so appealing? What memory is at the root? Yet although the memory that fires my mind is still triggered by that scent - I recall it not. I take comfort that some part of me remembers everything, without fail; yet I yearn that that part should be that which now speaks.
The heart can know the path, but feet must finally tread it.
These are the writings of my heart, should it be willing to unleash them; these are the tales of my days, should it be willing to remember them; and this the story of my great repentance - should your eyes and ears be willing to accept it.