Part II: Light

Let Me tell you a story.

It begins, like so many of your stories, with once upon a time -- though, it should be said, "once upon a time" for you, not Me. Because, if there is one thing I have in common with My sister, it is the immutability of nature that comes with time and age. Nothing is truly immortal ... except, perhaps, for the two of us, Dark and Light. Eternal opposites, watching over an every changing galaxy ... but that's a story for another day.

Once upon a time, a lovely woman gave birth to a beautiful child. The child, to the mother, was the most precious thing in all the universe; she loved him with all the strength of her being, with all the depths of her heart. She has memorized the contours of his face, the angles and curves that make up his soft little body. She has caressed the soft fuzz of his head more times than she can count but still rejoices in each little breath he takes, every little noise he makes.

She would willingly give her own life for him, and, as he grows up, forfeits many little things for him, things he will never know about, things he will never question. Because what is a pair of jeweled earrings in comparison to the well-being of her little child? What are a few things sacrificed, if her child will be the happier for it?

She loves him, and it will be forever.

She watches him grow up. She is there to catch him when he falls and help him get up again when he is ready. She bandages his hurts, kisses his injuries, laughs with him in his joy, cries with him when he sorrows. She is there to take pride in his success, to comfort him in his failures, to offer help and support and guidance and whatever else he needs, whenever he needs it. And though she may sometimes be exasperated with him, sometimes angry with him, she is always there to protect him from the whims of the world.

She struggles to teach him about the universe: about what is right and what is wrong, about what he can or cannot or should or should not do. And, sometimes, he learns the lesson well. But, at other times, he digs in his heels with all the recalcitrance that a child can muster, and refuses to learn. She frowns at him, cajoles him, tries to make him learn his lessons, because she loves him enough to know that this will be important for his life. And so, eventually, he rolls his eyes and consents; he learns his lessons, but whether or not he will use them is another matter entirely.

And, for a very long time, that is enough.

But, as he grows, she learns something about herself as well: she finds that she loves him enough to let him choose his own destiny. She knows that he will not always be the child that emerged from her womb, that he will grow and change and mature. She knows that every little boy wants to get away from his mother and, one day, her boy will be no different.

And so the day comes. Her little boy strays from his mother, strays away from the lessons she has taught him. He strays to the dubious pleasures of the flesh, forsaking the nourishment of his heart and soul. Indeed, he begins to lose those as well: he surrenders himself to pleasure and chaos, reveling in the oblivion of drunken bliss. He forfeits the comforts of home and hearth for an orgy of the senses: rapture and delight and ecstasy, they are his mistresses now, and he willingly forsakes the solace of his mother's arms.

But she loves him. Her door is open, and she awaits his return.

My sister lies with the truth. It is one of Her many charms, and no doubt one of the many things that lure so many of My children into Her arms. Yet, all the same, Her version of the truth leaves much to be desired.

She will give you power. But the power She gives has a mind of its own. She gives it freely, generously, but the recipients of her favors are not always in control of their gifts. Eventually, the line between that power and the one who receives it becomes blurred indeed; it will not be you controlling your actions, though you may think it. You will be a captive, a slave, and you will still exult, oblivious, even amidst in the horrors of your prison.

She will keep you from Death. But She will also keep you from Life; there is a difference between being alive and simply existing. She will grant you existence, long and tortured and unending, but never a true life of your own. Eventually, you will long for Death to take you, in any way He will ... and She will never grant you that comfort. You will exist, long past the time you are meant to be called, and you will wish for Death a thousand times and again.

She will show you the mysteries of the universe. But seeing them will be a cold comfort indeed without a home to return to. You will long for knowledge but never have enough. You will wander with Her across the galaxy, across the universe, always looking for a place to set down roots ... and never find it. You will be a wanderer for all your days, restless and weary, unable to stop, unable to rest, with your feet always carrying you onward. You will be tired, haggard, drained, but you will never find what it is that you seek, though you look for all the days of your existence.

She will give you ecstasy. But it is a dubious joy indeed when Her cold arms take you into the oblivion of Her embrace. Because She can never give you what you really seek; Her caresses will be passionate, but it will be the passion of lust, of want. Of cold malice and colder hatred, of comfortless nights in a joyless bed. Because pleasure is nothing without the emotion that goes with it.

Because ... though She offers you the universe, She can never give you any of those things that I always give freely. She can offer you power and knowledge and pleasure, but She can never give you tranquillity, comfort, healing, solace, warmth ...

Love.

Come to Me, child; My door is open.

Finis