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880 words of foolishness. The autumn skies take me strangely sometimes, and I'm not well right now. *smiles lopsidedly*
Dome of Heaven
The wind is high today, moving across the vault of heaven. It will not stir its fingers through our dust, not today. It will not touch the earth, will not feather childish fingers through our hair, will not sting bright tears from our eyes. Today, the wind is far away, and will not deign to join our play.
Ah well. That is the wind's prerogative, and well deserved, perhaps. To ignore our little games and chase a higher course, to fly far and wide and touch the sky above some other child, smile down upon some other earth. That is its right, after all.
For now, we will be content to watch it move the sky. To watch it sheet the clouds high and thin, to paint the heavens a rippled, radiant silver. To watch the grey, cumulus leviathans drift serenely beneath them, buoyed by wind's fingers and laughing breath. To see the sun, high and vast, two hours beyond his zenith, be cradled in the silver net to hang, liquid and white-gold, against Heaven's Wheel. To watch It turn, at the wind's behest, and know the movements of things greater and more laughing than ourselves.
There was a man, you know. Once upon a time. A man who looked up at that silver vault, at the arc and wheel of Heaven above his head, and despaired. Despaired that his fingers would never touch what the wind touched, that his breath would never move what the wind moved, that his eyes would never see what the wind saw. A man who desired, beyond all else, to know those vast and laughing movements as his own. A man who desired to have the Wheel of Heaven beneath his hands, and move it to his will.
What could he do, this man? What could any man do, with such a desire? The Heavens were not his, nor ever would be, not to that man as he was then. Not to us as we are now. These things are not ours to move, and touch us only as they will. We are children beneath the Wheel, and It laughs at us yet. Not unkindly. Distantly, perhaps. Its games are not our games.
But this man, he would not surrender. His desire was so strong, his wild passion for the sky, for that great vault. He would not give in, though Heaven would never be his. So instead, in place of the vault he could not touch ... this man built a different vault. A smaller arc, a Heaven made by man, guided by his hands. A monument, to a sky he would never own. A memorial, for a desire that moved him, nonetheless, to try.
A dome, it was. On the mountain above the plains, where no other man could reach, could touch what was not theirs. A dome of the palest, whitest stones, balanced upon six massive pillars, the height of thirty men apiece. Hung between them, the thinnest, finest carved screens, glowing pale in the sun, allowing the wind its play between their nets.
And above ... above, the Dome itself. Full the height of fifty men above the ground at its zenith, the vault was his dream of Heaven. Made of the pale, near-translucent stone of the sea-plains to the south, carved upon its outer face so that the light of Heaven flowed in arcs and billows through it to those who stood beneath. Feathered across in sweeps of filigree silver, the dust of earth upon the Heavens. And at it's cusp, the pillar of light, the window to the Upper Vault. To the sky. The bridge to Heaven, through which one day he dreamed to pass.
The window he never saw shaped. This man, mortal and desperate, never saw the finish of his dream. He never saw his Dome completed, never gazed upon the monument to his desire that thousands after him took for their own. This man, this dreamer, who had lost the Wheel of Heaven, never held his own.
That monument still stands, you know. The Dome of Heaven, it is called. The Madman's Arch. Pale and crumbling, now, as the dust stirs softly at its feet. The man who moved it is long since gone, leaving only the stillness of stone in his wake. The memory of the Heaven he built, beneath the endless arc of the one he could not touch.
One day, perhaps, a man will do what he could not. One day, man might brush the clouds across a sky with delicate fingers in the name of art and creation, and it will be perfect. One day, we will gild silver across the heavens and delight in the radiance that shines beneath our fingertips. One day, we will do that. But ... until then, what shall we, like him, comfort ourselves in doing?
We shall build flawed monuments to foolishness in stone and silver, and listen to the wind laugh softly at what they show us of ourselves. We shall build our domes, and know the movements of things greater and more laughing than ourselves.
And perhaps, in that distant future where stars sing to our touch, we shall look again at crumbled stone, and think "Once, we were foolish children, reaching after adult dreams.
And we were beautiful then."
The wind is high today, moving across the vault of heaven. It will not stir its fingers through our dust, not today. It will not touch the earth, will not feather childish fingers through our hair, will not sting bright tears from our eyes. Today, the wind is far away, and will not deign to join our play.
Ah well. That is the wind's prerogative, and well deserved, perhaps. To ignore our little games and chase a higher course, to fly far and wide and touch the sky above some other child, smile down upon some other earth. That is its right, after all.
For now, we will be content to watch it move the sky. To watch it sheet the clouds high and thin, to paint the heavens a rippled, radiant silver. To watch the grey, cumulus leviathans drift serenely beneath them, buoyed by wind's fingers and laughing breath. To see the sun, high and vast, two hours beyond his zenith, be cradled in the silver net to hang, liquid and white-gold, against Heaven's Wheel. To watch It turn, at the wind's behest, and know the movements of things greater and more laughing than ourselves.
There was a man, you know. Once upon a time. A man who looked up at that silver vault, at the arc and wheel of Heaven above his head, and despaired. Despaired that his fingers would never touch what the wind touched, that his breath would never move what the wind moved, that his eyes would never see what the wind saw. A man who desired, beyond all else, to know those vast and laughing movements as his own. A man who desired to have the Wheel of Heaven beneath his hands, and move it to his will.
What could he do, this man? What could any man do, with such a desire? The Heavens were not his, nor ever would be, not to that man as he was then. Not to us as we are now. These things are not ours to move, and touch us only as they will. We are children beneath the Wheel, and It laughs at us yet. Not unkindly. Distantly, perhaps. Its games are not our games.
But this man, he would not surrender. His desire was so strong, his wild passion for the sky, for that great vault. He would not give in, though Heaven would never be his. So instead, in place of the vault he could not touch ... this man built a different vault. A smaller arc, a Heaven made by man, guided by his hands. A monument, to a sky he would never own. A memorial, for a desire that moved him, nonetheless, to try.
A dome, it was. On the mountain above the plains, where no other man could reach, could touch what was not theirs. A dome of the palest, whitest stones, balanced upon six massive pillars, the height of thirty men apiece. Hung between them, the thinnest, finest carved screens, glowing pale in the sun, allowing the wind its play between their nets.
And above ... above, the Dome itself. Full the height of fifty men above the ground at its zenith, the vault was his dream of Heaven. Made of the pale, near-translucent stone of the sea-plains to the south, carved upon its outer face so that the light of Heaven flowed in arcs and billows through it to those who stood beneath. Feathered across in sweeps of filigree silver, the dust of earth upon the Heavens. And at it's cusp, the pillar of light, the window to the Upper Vault. To the sky. The bridge to Heaven, through which one day he dreamed to pass.
The window he never saw shaped. This man, mortal and desperate, never saw the finish of his dream. He never saw his Dome completed, never gazed upon the monument to his desire that thousands after him took for their own. This man, this dreamer, who had lost the Wheel of Heaven, never held his own.
That monument still stands, you know. The Dome of Heaven, it is called. The Madman's Arch. Pale and crumbling, now, as the dust stirs softly at its feet. The man who moved it is long since gone, leaving only the stillness of stone in his wake. The memory of the Heaven he built, beneath the endless arc of the one he could not touch.
One day, perhaps, a man will do what he could not. One day, man might brush the clouds across a sky with delicate fingers in the name of art and creation, and it will be perfect. One day, we will gild silver across the heavens and delight in the radiance that shines beneath our fingertips. One day, we will do that. But ... until then, what shall we, like him, comfort ourselves in doing?
We shall build flawed monuments to foolishness in stone and silver, and listen to the wind laugh softly at what they show us of ourselves. We shall build our domes, and know the movements of things greater and more laughing than ourselves.
And perhaps, in that distant future where stars sing to our touch, we shall look again at crumbled stone, and think "Once, we were foolish children, reaching after adult dreams.
And we were beautiful then."
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