The End of Days

All that has a beginning, must have an ending. Only that which has never been may always be.

The shape of Time is a ring. On the Plain, we followed our own footsteps. We walked the path we had always walked; we lived as we had always lived. Know the truth of the Plain, and the empty eternities of its bitter barrenness. Know the knife-edge balance on which existence danced. Know that a future of infinity is as a future of none.

The shape of Time is a spear. In the Mountain, we followed our destiny. We drove deep on paths never walked; we lived as none had ever lived. Know the truth of the Mountain, and the fruitful finities of its cavernous creation. Know the meandering choices existence can take. Know that a future of bounded time is a future of boundless possibility.

A day will come when the Cave begins to crumble. This day is not the last day, but it is a herald. All the peoples of the Cave will grow quarrelsome, and war with each other and themselves. The tribes will be as stone-shell crabs caught in a flood; each fighting to be the last to die. A day will come when the Cave will collapse, our world entombed in stone, leaving behind a graven memory of our lives.

Our time will end, yet Time cannot. Our lives will end, yet Life must not. The Plains will always be desolate, yet so long as light and shadow meet, new life will grow. There was a Cave before ours, with dwellers we do not remember, and there will be a Cave after ours, whose dwellers do not remember us.

The Trapped consider this inevitability, and see it as the thief of meaning. They fear oblivion, and see an ending yet to come as poison to the day at hand. Some among them are driven to despair, and seek to bring the Cave down around them. The Settled consider this inevitability, and see it as the killer of meaning. They defy oblivion, and see an ending yet to come as challenge to the day at hand. Some among them are driven to fury, and seek to shore up the Cave that its fall might be delayed.

Know this for truth: death can only end life; it cannot erase it. The ending of a song does not unsing it. Know this for truth: it is death that gives life meaning. The fleeting nature of mortality makes each moment worth living, for they are numbered and precious. Know this for truth: we will never be forgotten. Each of us shall die, yet while our tribe lives and sings of us, we remain. And when the days of our tribe come to a close, when the world comes crashing down to bury us, we remain.

Our blood runs in the veins of the world. Our bones shape its halls. Our footprints tread indelibly upon the skin of God. We need not fear being forgotten; the Mountain will treasure the memories of us for eternity.

Sing loud the songs of your ancestors. Let your descendants sing of you. Let us live as if we shall never die; let us live as if we shall die tomorrow. Let our lives echo everlasting in the stone of the world.