There is a sense in which the matrix of stories that we call history is itself a living thing. There is a structure to it, a shape, that we call its body, it has certain habitual progressions that we call its movement. We say history advances, or retreats, that it recalls this and forgets that; we look to it as a teacher, as a parentm as an oracle.
We say and do these things, and somehow we still delude ourselves that we are speaking metaphorically.
History is not only alive, it is aware.
It meets every test of consciousness. History anticipates. History intends. History wills.
Its anticipation, intention, and will are the sum of ours; it vectors our hopes and fears and dreams with the stern logic of the inanimate. And there are times when history lifts the hammer, and times when it bends the bow, and there are times when it draws a long, long breath.
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Cronicles of one of the Fallen
An account from one of the few who flew with the grace of God,
Challenged the sun, and was burned from the Heavens
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a breeze that smelled of wide-open spaces, of limitless skies and bright sun, of ice and high mountains.
It was the wind from the dark angels wings.