Here I stand, just as powerless as I’ve always been.
If only I was a shaman, magician, healer. If only I had the strength of herbs, fire, music, storms, ancient knowledge, sacred rites, guarded secrets.
Like a tide bird over the sea, I can only watch the surface, only glimpse occasionally a shadow beneath. But, as you probably already know, the shadows below get tangled with the surface above. The dream of the story combines with the real story, until the dream seems real and the real seems unreal, suspending you between opposing forces as if pinioned in the center of a vortex.
And nothing to do but watch and wait.