Ayers Speaks

Time is a song we are all dreaming together. Try to understand, although you cannot. Close your eyes and hear the dreamsong of my creation, how two tribes of snake-people fought over me, their battle digging channels into my stone skin, carving my face, how the blood that spilled stained and shaped me.

It happened long ago. It is happening now. It has yet to happen. Time is a orchestra, a symphony that begins and ends in an instant, yet takes forever to do so. You softquick things, you forget to sing the dream, forget to listen, which I think is why you destroy. It is an anger borne of ignorance, a hatred for what you do not know, for the dreamsong, for your own need to hear it, but this need has been unfulfilled for so long that you seek it through destruction.

Sadly, it works—at moments of great destruction, it swells to a crescendo and the small glimmer of beauty makes you little things happy. But it is but a whisper, a mere hum when compared to the beauty of the dreamsong in the throes of creation, an ecstatic birth of being where everything is beginning and all is melody and even time stops for a moment or two to listen to itself.

Oh, quicksoft creatures, you seek to destroy me as well. You stole my dreamname, Uluru, and calling me by a false one. Even in the face of this insult, I persevere, but the song has become off pitch, tinny, flat.
I could weather these minor slights, impermanent nuisances as they are, if that is all they were. But why, you insignificant parasites, do you steal my listening, my soul, with your tiny flashing boxes? It is a slow, painful thing, and such a small one at first. I didn’t mind nor notice. But eventually, the song grew distant, if only by a infinitesimal fraction. More and more now, certain notes are out of range, bass rumbles that I do not register. At one peak, I even heard silence, and I quaked when faced with its ugly nakedness.

No matter. Soon you will find your own destruction. It is a beautiful song, and you all cry at once when it dawns on you that it is the finale. Filled with flashes of suns and wind and heat, deserts of glass everywhere, burning snow. I am patient, waiting for this part of the song, dreaming it into existence. This is easy to do, for a mountain. Soon, soon. It happened long ago. It is happening now. It has yet to happen.