Remembering Bast

Summer Morning. My windows are open; I listen to the world below me. My bobcat sits on the windowsill calmly watching the swirls of the modern world that devours us humans. His green eyes drink in our mortal chaos. SUV's, iPhones, computers, thundering music, grills, crowded buses, money exchanging the 7/11 clerk to the starving prostitue. He grins at it all. I wonder if he thinks this society is foolish or seflconsieted. Yet here he is watching us, our auroas...he sees our true secrets. He knows we are prey to the demons we've created. But he, this ancient god of fire and sand, is unmoved by our self consumed Jones' lives. He is the hunter reaching down through the ages; an image fearfully worshiped by such an intellectual and complex culture. His mother, the lustful combination of cat and soft human curves, tempted us. She ruled us. She kept us safe. Rats strained their ears when she stalked the night. Starvation was never know, disease never plagued. As long as the priestesses sung their offerings, we as a nation were safe. A nation thriving for centuries. Their survival gave us the existence we have now. Without them our modern gods of electronics, sex and vehicles would never exist. My bobcat turns his head to watch my reminecenses of our ancestors. I am able to write these words for you because he helped pave the culture I live in. Now the memory of his dead goddess lays buried under crumbled temples, her being conquored by the Lion's blood. I look up at my bobcat as I finish my words. He's eating what i think was once a wasp!