Jen W.
Jen W.
Sep 1, 2018 · 2 min read
“Sacred Lotus (Nelumbo nucifera)” by Tamara Dean (In Our Nature, 2018).

Occhiolism: the awareness of the smallness of your perspective in the grandness of the vast scope of the Universe.

If you looked for them, you’d see them, waiting, watching for the next worshiper of the old gods, walking the path to visit one of the many shrines. Tradition dictated ancestral homage; reverence of the arcane was the only way to truly find yourself.

Travelers distracted enough by the anticipation of fervent prayers hardly paid heed to local legends, the warnings of those wise enough to listen to the dreams and recollections of the elders. For lying in the swamp, just under the surface of the clouded water, hidden by reeds, they waited. Not for groups of the devout, only for those traveling alone.

The path to the shrines was well-worn, but surrounded by mazes of trees and grasses, secreting a deep, green, murky marsh. The only hope of finding your way was to pay close attention to the tales you were told. Swamps were already hidden enough to get lost in, and deep enough to die in.

And many did, sinking forever into memories soon clouded by muddied remembrance.

The danger resting in the swamps wasn’t swift, or violent. It was quiet and calm, the realization of possible death a slow, cold slide of slippery fingers and limbs.

They couldn’t be called mermaids, that image is too familiar. Too tidy and conventionally beautiful. Neither were they sirens, with their haunting voices, violent teeth and seductive, writhing bodies. Mermaids and sirens are legends of the deep seas, synonymous with jagged rocks, huge swells, and the call of grand old magic.

No, these creatures called only to those zealous believers in the closeness of gods. The ones that could be called by the rustling of the grasses. That searched for what lay beneath their own reflections in the water.

These ancient creatures would stare back the humans with their ancient souls, calling not to their lusts, or to an empty existence. The creatures longed for a spirit so full, so reverent of the occult that they would willingly follow, stepping deeper into the mire.

The mud would suck at their bodies, the grasses scratching their hands, their faces. They would clasp palms with the creatures, breathing in the still, stagnant water. The weeds would wrap around their necks, strangling them with a chain made from devotion and desire.

They ended in the arms of deities, seduced by the euphoria of meeting with the living archaic, the answer to all desire, all reverence.

One might say they lost everything in those swamps, but in losing everything to the gods, didn’t they gain everything? An answer to their question of meaning, of purpose, and of truth to the mythology of the divine.

Beware you do not become too reverent, too zealous in pursuit of communion with your ideals.

Jen W.

Written by

Jen W.

Writer, athlete, photographer, artist. I love writing about anything magic, anything music, anything art.

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