Comets, Beards, and Men


Old men and comets have been reverenced for the same reason: their long beards, and pretences to foretell events. The epitome of this being one Albus Dumbledore. Old fart of a man with those starry eyes and twinkling spectacles and dust and ice beard glowing like the moon on a cold winter's night. Oh, yes, this is certainly him.

Men have long since wanted to gaze upon the future, to see what is to be and what can be done to change it. To stop their deaths, to stop a plague, to end all suffering.

And who is to say this is wrong? It certainly isn't, to have such a goal. But it does not refute that it cannot by done man. The will to do it may be strong, and perhaps the heart true, in the rarest of times, but the idea is truly folly.

Comets like Albus Dumbledore, and cynics like myself, are the only ones who know this, I think.

Have no worry; I only know the foolishness of the dilemma. I don't pretend to have any mythical power to understand the divine powers of Pythia or the like.

Been far too corrupted have I, and being far too young, I do not own a talent such as Albus', who forever seems to know what is here and what shall, or may, if you believe in the eyes of an optimist, which I certainly don't, come to pass.

Reverenced is he for only he can truly protect the scarred little boy, from himself or otherwise. Try as I might, the boy presses against the nice men with nasty ideas and finds himself lost in the tumble of the world, and I cannot save him. I see him fall, but only Dumbledore will be there to catch him if he hits ground.

For he only knows if he will truly strike the earth, crumpling together the little body the world has come to love and cherish as their own.

The art of the vision of seeing and having faith in things invisible is solely for man - not the likes of Albus Dumbledore. We believe we see, but we in fact have no idea. What is there in blindness is there for eternity, what is not there is there just as long, if not longer still.

Same is the thought that it is impossible that any thing so natural, so necessary, and so universal as death, should have been designed by providence as an evil to mankind. His death will not go unnoticed.

Reason; there is nothing of this left in the world now. Sybill Trelawney is certainly pleased - her craft will soon be the only thing left to believe in, to put our faith in before everything finally comes crashing down, if chaos fails to prevail at the first turn.

Their wallowing and suffering are evident even now. They will complain until the Tarot bids them good luck and hands them a silver coin, ensuring their crossing of the Styx is pleasant. It is the only good hand one can be dealt these days, with dawns bleak and the twilight ever shadowed amidst the encircling gloom.

Long has it been, and how short it lasted, since the magic of our lives was graced with a happy smile. They, we, are too caught up with shoving him into the limelight

Beards like Albus' tickle and irk the double faces of man. He cradles the child borne under the July star in his arms for he is the only one who can.

And they don't like this; they can't like it. It shows them where the true power, and the real strength of the resistance, actually sleeps at night. Not at their feet or on the bedside table, but in the embrace of the one man who is conscious of everything that passes him by. They claim, in some feeble effort to promote themselves, he is barmy. That he cannot be privy to knowing the things he does, for it would play the stars.

Pretences to foreshadow, to know what shall pass is only a word put to use on men. Dumbledore is not a man - at least not the ordinary kind, who eradicate all virtue and honesty from their lives for a bit of religion, of propaganda "to serve the common good." Nor is Albus a charade, no matter how much he plays the game. He is the Light in the Dark, and teaching the one who will have to replace his luminosity if he is not burned out already.

To say I am hopeful of the outcome this boy and his truest guardian is an exaggeration at best. I have never been helpful, only determined my whole life to get to a place where I belong. Perhaps that is why I at least wish for a victory, even the smallest that can be accomplished, for I have finally found my place.

Foretell, Albus, of a point for the Light. You are the one who can lead us. Lead us with the boy who lived to see yet another day. Lead us into the Dark so we can find the prevailing Light. We must have hope, or we will all fall into despair. You are our hope and you must save us from hating ourselves for the work of man no longer a soul.

Events as the ones such of late are far too evident of that.