Stream of Consciousness within a tomb.
Praising and being praised, none too different. Kneeling and begging, pleading for glory. The sun, the moon, the stars… it all ends and begins in human hands. Our perception limits us to this. Head hung before the jury. It’s/It’s not Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
In my nightmares, I fear for the best. How tiny tragedies can destroy us overnight.
“Bust a Tutankha-move.”
From head to toe your veins run slow, but your heart shakes a-plenty. From ear to ear you have no fear, and of cultures there are many. The children you bear, the cloth and the thread, the teeth that you bear, your oils and your bread…
To speak the name of the dead is to make them alive again (Ancient Egyptian belief, and possibly the reason for passing on a family name).
She walked away, deep into the tomb. Her eyes adjusted to the blackness. All she could feel was centuries old adn the smells of well-worn brass. Essentially torn apart by memories that weren’t her own, she couldn’t fathom all the fates that lay within the stone.
