Writings of Thistle Grey

The music is "A Gift of a Thistle" from "Braveheart"
Thistle Grey, Avatar of Ishtar, Goddess of Love and War

Untitled by Luis Royo

Writings of Thistle Grey
A Moment Received by Thistle Grey      The library of Ghost Archer's Manor has become a preferred place of solace for Thistle Grey. Never before had she had access, nor even envisioned, a collection of works so vast. Words, tales, experiences preserved forever in the scripts of a thousand authors hands; all waiting to be lifted from the pages and brought to spirit by the next conscious soul to absorb them.
     Empty for the time, the library itself was of beautiful architect. Ceiling tall windows to line the Eastern wall, their edges shrouded by deep heavy curtains. All the remaining walls inset with shelves to store the thousands of volumes compiled in Archer's collection. Rich oaken furniture, now as old as the mother trees that they were crafted from filled the room. Tables to study at, a desk for more personal affairs to be scripted upon, hand carved chairs, a twelve foot tall cabinet bearing glass crystal doors, an ancient grandfather clock clucking deeply off to one side.
     The room laid out exact, except for the recent imperfections of use. Several books lay stacked on the edge of a shelf by one window. The titles span a variety of authors and subjects including; Through the Looking Glass, Red Branch, Watership Down, and Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. As well, a morning old orange peel lays forgotten in a cloth napkin on the open sill. The rind had not yet dried and still omitted the oranges strong sweet scent. A fire had been lit recently in the grand fireplace centered in the left wall and still hissed the tiniest of claims to life. This was not all that was to be found disturbed. One table, the morning light reflecting off of it as if a pool, bore a new decor upon it. A simple dark clay vase pouring from it's wide top opening a near bushel of fresh cut wild flowers. Each bloom shot motions of color in all directions, seeming to fill the room. Upon closer inspection a small note could be noticed clipped under the edge of the vase. In the runic script of elvish presence, it lay folded, reading only a name, Ghost Archer. If examined the single folded note would read, in the same elvish tongue, these simple words:

I am the river.
You are the stone.
I am always moving.
You are always home.

I cannot turn back.
And you cannot come to me.
But we are always touching.
From mountain to sea.

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