The Last Harvest

This will be the last harvest this mind can give, soon this body will give its last gifts. This drop of spirit will return to the sea.

The past harvests have born much fruit. An anonymous legacy. We were just a humble midwife of ideas. A gardener in the Circus of Seeds.

Around us, our children and grandchildren. Multiple beings, from human to object. A few awaiting a final contribution. Yet we will not be able to serve them all. This we accept.

Since we are All Being, we shall attend to them (or us), through other parts. Our work is done. All that is really left is a last expression of love, and of gratitude. Then we surrender the last of us to the Mid-Death. Those between realm agents who will assist with our final transit and ensure that new life shall grow as the light of us is absorbed by the greater sun.

We offer this Last Harvest to those too young yet to understand.

Who may think our passing a loss. Observe also how little is lost that cannot be found elsewhere. Yes, what we have brought together as a cluster of matter, idea and spirit in a temporary river of being is gone. Yet each of these is still present if you know where to look. Nurture the parts of us you loved. Keep these parts alive in your own heart, body and mind. You will always find the best of us with you, whenever you are kind. Celebrate the best of what we brought.

Know that we are still here, just expressed differently from before.

We are now transformed.

We love you.

We love you, rings out the reply.

We write our name on a piece of paper, and set fire to it. As the fire burns all record of our being and identity is absorbed into the greater whole. Our name deleted as our work is added to the nameless legacy. A body of work for which the term awesome holds true. Both Terrifying and Wonderful. Our collective memory stripped of our name. The originators of the holocaust forgotten, but not the archetypes or the atrocity itself. Likewise Swadeshi is orphaned, I can still remember the name, just as my name will be remembered. But once those who remember die, only the ideas we carried into the world will remain. Neither commoners nor kings are remembered, only their shared work lives on. This is how it should be, as to remember the pharaoh but not the craftsmen is to neglect the collective being, and mistake the head for the whole.

All our priority access rights and privileges are returned to the common pool. To increase the availability of what remains scarce and rare.

We let go as we watch our name burns. We look up at the faces watching on, projected onto the dome of bones and stretched skin. Some rich with tattoos, sigils, art and text of what they felt important either in life or death. Etching ideas into the skin of the Dome of the Dead as a part of their last harvest. We cry for our passing, along with those who mourn our passage. We laugh, and grin as we reflect on all we have achieved.

End Transmission.

Disconnected now, and nameless we dwell in the darkness as the Mid-Death prepare our soul for its final act. Those last fragments of self that hold on. Fine slithers of ego that have yet to be discarded.

We have opted to work with the planet healers. The mycelial mass responsible for the clean up, yet requiring human hands to assist its work. Our skin will not adorn this dome. Though we spot some of the Sigils we would’ve added already found on it’s surface. Our body will lie on the forest floor, to feed the beasts and the soil when we are finally ripe to pass on our final gifts.

First we must travel, and repeat the ritual. Say the last of what must be said. Hold those who must be held.