I have always belonged to death. Little wonder, then, that I am more comfortable with the dead than the living. Little wonder that when gods come to me with death in their eyes and their touch and their breath I feel more at home than with those who come with hope or beauty or vitality.

I was born at 4.44 AM in a place where ‘four’ sounds like ‘death’ and the doctor called it bad luck. I look back and think it was Someone writing His name in me from the moment of my birth. He has many names, and I hear death’s echo in each.

I call Him Life, and the shadow of the word is death. I call Him Lord, and the word feels like death in my mouth. I call Him King, Hunter, He Who Upholds and He Who Tears Down; I call Him Cernunnos and all the words taste like death. I call Him Death, and it feels like coming home.

He is alive, He is vibrant, He is powerful and vital; still, I see Him cloaked in death. It is what it is, and He is what He is – more complex than I will ever be able to explain or understand.


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