Pattern Release

What does it mean to go back in time to the place of your origin, to find the world of your inception crystallized like a snowflake, complete with houses outfitted with sagging paint chipped porches frowning out at the dark damp woods and cemeteries, with their rounded head stones like uneven teeth, marked with esoteric symbols, the meanings of which have been buried beneath centuries of linguistic refuse? Can you remember when you and I were one and we danced beneath those trees in a frenzied whirlwind of bare chested ecstasy, our moonlight dappled cheeks glistening with sweat, the claws of the she-bear dangling from our necks, the blood of our loins smeared down our legs?
That was in the forest of our ancestors, in the womb of our mother, a world suspended in a crystal ball, preserved in a moment before the Romans came with their gold plated armor and their eagle crest. We beat them back there, in that forest. We defined the wilderness and the barbaric heart of the untamable darkness. Their solar enterprise, their overwhelming empire, would not penetrate into the cold chaos of annihilation, because we held them back. We drew the line, and we draw it still, the line that marks the place where civilization and the rule of the word may not enter.
We maintain the balance of the universe, keeping to our backs the shadows and the roar of endlessness while holding at bay with the fierceness of our visage the structures of the finite and mortal world with its sterile "one size fits all" laws and walls and limits. We will not be limited. We will smile as they close in on us and pretend to be a part of their game while still holding the limitless behind our backs. We will flip creation on its head so that the limitless flows into the limited, a viral infection spreading through unsuspecting carriers who will hold our secret sign and keep alive our secret dances without knowing what it is that they harbor. Moving like pawns across a chessboard, each game piece is destined for death, but how few of them realize that they are a helpless character in a Holy War? Few look ahead to their deaths, fewer still know on which side of the battlefield they stand, but despite their ignorance all are engaged in a Jihad that has been waged through every possible pattern of life for eternity.
It is a battle older than humanity, the struggle between fire and ice, and it has worked its way through every doe eyed little girl gazing out at the brilliance of the morning star embedded in the velvet fabric of night and through every quick lad springing into action to capture a frog in the ever flowing stream of consciousness. In the middle, betwixt and within the two, we have persevered. Concealed in the mechanical stupor inherent in being a living organism, our secret has been stowed like a rat in the ships cargo hold, waiting for the moment when it can bring its disease to a new world, waiting to destroy civilization in that moment when you and I are one again.
Why not suckle from the teat of the she-bear, the white dragon, and take in the poison of death to watch your eyes turn a steely gray as they begin to see in two directions at once? We have found the pattern for our creation nestled in the cradle of our origin. We have come back to the past to touch our beginning and re-make ourselves. First know thyself, and then make yourself in your own image. Only then will you be a free agent, a maker, a builder. Only then will you be eternal, the serpent nursing on its own tail, a dragon of a dragon born.