I Pray I'm Not Awake

"Yes. You are all good at some rather annoying things." Frey says mildly. "Instincts left over from a time when it served you well. It will be bred out of you soon enough. For now, you must adapt so that future generations will not have to feel this." Despite their closeness, Frey was still a world away. An unknown entity wrapped around a form that was something that Phoebe could understand. But a god merely worked the construct into which they chose, the face and flesh Phoebe thought she saw, the sadness, it was all an echo of something else. Frey was a higher dimensional being, existing in a plane of reality that the girl—no human, truly—could understand. The Frey who was projected was just a shadow of what was, but it was all Phoebe's mind would let her see. "Your sorrow is meaningless." Frey said, though not unkindly. "Comfort is meaningless too. It is in this way that knowledge is helpful. Do you cry when you spill your water, knowing that there is more to be had? No. You cry when you are unsure when you will drink again, and you lament your choices. But in a world of abundance, of resource or information, there is little room or need for comfort." But Phoebe's mind cannot handle the information that a god's can, and so these comparatively meager comforts are what Frey has on offer. "Harmony is beautiful." Frey corrects, for that is what their world is. Unanimity. Harmony. Grace. Completion. A self sustaining circuit. A whole of many parts. "It is what you have yet to do, honeybee." They say, the small planetary sphere upon which they rest suddenly morphing and growing. Volcanoes which have lain dormant spew lava that encapsulates everything into a hardened shell of rock. It appears ugly at first, inhospitable. But upon closer inspection the scale of life has merely changed; the air is dense with small single-celled creatures and the ground beneath their feet is awash in bacteria and other signs of life. The suns spin and time passes. Eventually roots break free and seas, and the rock is cracked and overgrown, encompassed by something much more fertile and life giving. "Love is not our doing." Frey says, and their tone sounds almost like a revelation. A secret. "It is a thing done by Mort and we have forever been playing catch up to that change." Frey

Table image by Beth Myer!