Prose. The wandering soul.

“… I continue to wonder about my reputation. What will I be after I’m gone, what will they say when my bones have turned to dust, and my legs can’t carry me farther than I can carry a tune.

What will they say when the sun has set and there is no more light to shine on my existence. I continue to wonder about my reputation, they say all’s well that ends well, but when the times change like sands change, who is forgotten and what is remembered, dictated only by those choosing to participate, I wonder if I will be remembered as kind, just or loving. Or as harsh cruel and violent as the heat from the sun.

I asked that my bones be blessed, that the sands of time does not swallow me whole, devouring my every essence, separating me from what I am. And I ask that my spirit continue to thrive, and that my decrepit existence will not be erased by those who wish to do me harm.

I cannot guarantee that my existence will be made known, I can only ask that the writing on the dust that I leave in the desert be used to satisfy the requirements that my spirit has laid upon me.”

I am doing a comic for this poem, but felt I should share it before I do so.

I write often at spurr of the moment, no telling me whether it will stop, or begin, be good or bad, be strong, or weak, but I just do, and I think that’s what this year ios giong to be about. Accepting imperfection and doing something, even if you’re not an expert.

May the year of Wepwawet protect our bones, and souls.

Dua Wepwaet! Dua Netjer, Nekhtet.

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