My Child Comma

Pantheon

My Child,

Your mother swears she can feel you kicking. She says this is a sign that you will be an active child. I don't know about all that, but it does get me thinking about you, about what you are soon going to be like. What will you kick against out here?

Kick against much, my child, kick against much.

For, out here, in this vast Pantheon, we are surrounded with small tremulous gods born out of want and need, but they are found wanting when called on for provision and truth. Their disciples spout mad creeds and justify unending battles, and I fear we are left staring up at the crumbling structures and strictures that threaten to fall upon our heads.

Your mother says you will be active. That's good, for there is much to do, much to kick.

Listen to me - planning your life. I should not do that. Perhaps you will look at the world with an apathy that I will envy. Or perhaps you will love walking these ruins staring at the warmonger Ares, or the rapist patriarch, Zeus. Perhaps you will spout mad creeds and justifications. Whatever makes you happy. But, I only ask that when Zeus approaches, you kick. You deserve more than the mockery affections of these lesser gods, my child.

I hope you find enough deity within yourself, within your mother's love. I hope your Elysium will be more than a dream whisper - I hope you can wake to it, and look upon it with the weary eyes of morning.

I guess I'm just looking forward to walking through this Pantheon with you, teaching you and learning from you, like too small archaeologists amongst the ruins of wisdom.

Right now, you are a small unified perfection, and when you finally enter this Pantheon, you can only degenerate into the most boisterous deity.