When few could barely dream to cross the world within one life,

And Alexander, being a king of dreaming men, became a god himself

In seeking out and grasping whole what men could only dream of

The gods’ existence, lives that are at once condensed and stretched,

Were placed once beyond the grasp of mortal men.

The scale of theirs was made beyond the rim of the night sea and its islands which themselves were known only by those ambitious and embittered fingers of the spirit that belonged to bolder minds.

But as we have seen our powers growing in the years,We move as if we aim to bite at the nails of ancient gods, whose natures are ethereal and swindling, so when we gnaw and pluck we do so only at the thoughts of dreams and of ambitions that we delivered to ourselves.

At once we are the trees and also harpy and the double born son may laugh as we play both Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, three who know that there are no jesters in the madhouse, only kings and queens who dig through the rubble of their memory as history drips as blood does from their fingertips.

Remember that it is the duty of insanity to mingle with reason and in so bridge Tartarus and Olympus, and in so carry on the game of eternal tug of war.

And also know that those who are self-smart and place emphasis on prudence are the better targets for the swindler and the thief, gods themselves who seek the glories more precious than what one would place at the bottom of a purse.

We have taken and do enjoy our distance from such gods.

At times they do enjoy the cycling of resurgence, which information and the exoticness of time may claim responsibility and equally our willful forgetfulness towards the ouroboros that is ever in formation.

We feel now that we have conquered such gods by merit and advancement in our knowledge of science and of language and that we have cemented our ancestor’s delusions within the godly trap of paper and of words, creations for which we idolize ourselves and dream we may entomb that which is eternal, forgetting how delusions and swindlers tend to work.

And as we cram ourselves behind them, waist deep into milk-white pools of blankness and of space, attempting to codify our own myths, we push the tides up higher and the shallow margins shrink.

Upon the pruning paper, we dream we have caught our prey, and perhaps in secret relish in the hope of metempsychosis, joyful that we have pushed the gods into the gaps, into pages that are sealed off. As if by some cosmic justice they are titans and we the young new breed of champions.

Yet, we as we push into the depths and outer limits of the page, our own cacophony and rejoicing serves only to drown the voices of the gods that laugh at us from behind the white veil.

So test yourself and ask the wiser part within you, how can we be conquerors, when all we know of worlds are words?

To dream the gods are metaphors held down by lead or stone or even weightless light does insult to those who choose to dream beyond the borders as Alexander did.