Psalms of Ninasar, the Watcher
An end. It comes to me that all things must end, great and small.
Even time — that most constant of human concepts — will end with the last breath of humanity. Time came into being the moment mortals perceived it, and it will cease when the last mortal is gone. Existence will continue.
As mortals perceive them, measures of time mean little to me, like copper pieces do to those who accrue great wealth. A copper piece means as little to the wealthy as does a second of eternity to the eternal. I confess I care little for either.
Nay, even a wretch in the richness of their wretchedness, cares little for the single flea when the itching starts, I assure you.
Fleas, wealth, eternity — are they the same?
Wealth can become a burden, so can eternity, and as for fleas, well ask the wretched. A pauper may dream of an eternity of wealth. I care for both as much as I care for fleas —
Nay, I would trade both to the wretched for their itching. Take eternity first, mind you. I desire an eternity with fleas a measure less than an eternity of wealth.
Aye, take my eternity, and let the parasites have my bones. My one desire is to give my body to the worms.
I know that sounds unappealing and inglorious, but fools judge the nature of things by their endings — good and bad and degrees in between. Fools and priests will try to tell you that the nature of a thing’s ending imparts status on its whole. A fool’s opinion is bound to that instant of gratification. It creates a desire for something to end well — like an epic story or a song. A song.
Does one judge a song by the final note? Should one consider a minute by its last second or an hour by the closing minute?
Nay, if the flesh that housed a soul of murderous malice is interred in a gilded cell, it does not elevate the soul.
If a person lives well and virtuous and generous but expires in a midden heap, that inglorious end does not diminish their greatness.
To believe otherwise is the philosophy of an idiot.
Raise up any of these gilded caskets and pry into them. Compare what is there with the remains found in the pine box of a potter’s field.
All those who expire then pass through the guts of worms are destined to end up as great heaps of midden.
I can tell you that it is not the finish that makes the story. The cast of characters is the thing. It is their hopes, their dreams, their loves, their victories, and their losses.
What care I where my bones lay in the end?
A midden heap or a gilded casket, it is all the same to me.
Oh, what I would give to be the food of worms.
