In this present, independent and eternal, I dream of other moments, imagining pasts and futures, varied and ever-changing, drying on the ethereal canvas that I paint at a whim, sometimes wild, sometimes somber, but always mine, even if I can not recall why.

The Origin of Kasey

This is the tale of kasey, as told by the watcher, not as it sees time (which is concurrent) but in the linear fashion of the mundane. Presented are some of the probable pasts that seem to align with this present. The probable futures are told elsewhere.

When Sol had barely crossed into the bull, scarcely beyond the seventh house's door, and proud Luna sat firmly on the scales in the twelfth, the scorpion climbed up to the eastern horizon, and kasey was born, in the township of Duluth.

Kenneth and Patricia now had a son, but six years later (and after a second child) their love was a wounded beast, and divorce was the resolution. A most unhappy fate, for the mother left without her son and her daughter, already having two sons from an earlier union. Thus begins the tale.

First came the time of the wandering, traveling far away and back again. The child bore the woes of nomadic life with a heavy heart and, often enough, his father's heavy hand to remind him of his quandary.

Then came the becoming times, mystical thirteen, age of change, the crossing into adulthood, and ultimately liberty. Manifesting with a summer visit with his long-absent mother. Her house becoming a refuge that developed into a home, and so came an end to instability.

There in the mountains, though depression was ever his companion, he found respite. He became a scholar of some small note, but perhaps it was too easy, for it came without effort and the drive to succeed was lacking. Yet the need for independence was not, so he sought employment to gain financial freedom and started to form the chrysalis that would insure his change into a man.

Perhaps scarred, perhaps spoiled, perhaps lost among the wandering many, he left his collegiate education and headed for the luring lights of the urban sky, sprawling, diverse Atlanta, where freedom blossomed into gratification of long neglected desires. Living for the moment, he sought out pleasures which could but only mask his inner, unhealed pains, but it seemed enough, for then.

Yet still the Siren's cry of freedom called. It seemed far off, originating on a far away coast, beckoning with promises of liberties far greater. Promising experiences exotic and new, and opportunities before unsought, the voice ever whispered in his ear, and to San Diego it finally led him.

Though the beginning was rough, the attraction to that western coast never abated, and time brought some small reward for his patience, for his laboring granted a modest wage. This, however, was mostly gifted to reveling, to cavorting, and to pursuing the illusion of happiness, rather than investing in a solid foundation for the future.

Then came a stirring. Deep within, awakening guilt began to weep through the commotion of misguided bliss, and home beckoned, not in the Siren's voice, not with a promise of prosperity, but in a call for duty and possibly a suggestion of maturation. So the beloved Golden State was abandoned, and the yoke was slipped around his neck once more.

With duty came some benefits, a completed education, secure employment, and bonds of love, or what seemed to be. For love is not merely the word so freely tossed around by those whom we embrace. It is not the bondage of duty, nor is it the desire of the flesh. It is the knowing of being, a freedom found in submission, the embrace of All That Is.

At last the poet was reborn. The philosopher fully awoke, and seclusion was enacted as a barrier to distraction and as the savior of his soul. Healing began, interrupted for a while, but through true love and forgiveness, will never be lost again. Or so he prays.