The Wesir Kemet

(Cut and pasted unedited from my private journal.)

Last night I was snuggling with Sekhmet when she decided there was something wrong with me that had to be attended to right then. I was annoyed by that idea. Snuggling was far more fun than being worked on, and haven’t they been working on me enough? What good would it actually do? I pouted and told her so, but of course, once she makes up her mind there’s not much you can do.

She dragged me to the rest of my godly line up. They all are listed as healing gods in one manner or another. Maybe I need a lot of looking after, or maybe it’s the fact that there are about as many gods of healing as there are gods with crowns in the Kemetic pantheon. Can’t toss a cat without hitting one.

Ever since the first vision Sekhmet sent me, there has been a bottomless black hole in my heart. I’ve ignored it, run away from it. I’ve endured it and told everyone I was fine. Sometimes I even believed my own lie. It’s an instability that spawns other injuries which seem difficult to heal. I remember the grief crashing over me. I remember staring out across the sands. I remember when we said, “It’s all gone! Brought down by the arrogance of the people.” Kemet was gone and it wasn’t coming back. I don’t care how many reconstructionists you have sifting through the sands. All they will find are bones. The god in me felt like it was his fault. He should have been able to save it. It was his job to keep it safe. He failed, and even worse, he survived that failure when others were lost.

They set to work on that hidden darkness. I felt the needle pierce my etheric flesh. I felt the thread pull through. They took another pain, a natural pain, one I was able to grasp, and stitched it together with that seemingly endless void. It was the death of my father, my real, earthly one. In so doing, they brought the other pain into perspective. Sometimes things, people, even civilizations, die. It is a natural process. No matter how hard you try, you can’t hold it off forever.

Kemet is not just dead, it is Wesir. We assemble her limbs, scattered across the world. We say the words. We revitalize her. Her enduring fertility inspires us, but she isn’t coming back. Instead we must turn our eyes to her children, bring them life and strength. Allow them to justify their mother.


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