It is a tale of gods and men and hubris.
Enim vero di nos quasi pilas homines habent.
The great philosopher-king led his people from their land, choosing exile over death and slavery to their gods. Long did they trek through the endless void, seeking refuge and sanctuary where they may rest their weary souls. Many died on that journey, though we may never know what fraction of the whole was left when the few set themselves down and beheld their new home.
The land was green and peaceful, but the philosopher-king despaired, for his people were sick in spirit and weary in faith. They cried unto him, "How may we live when we have forsaken our gods?"
And the philospher-king said, "We must make our own gods. We shall create our new gods with our hands, such that we know of what we worship, and never shall we be deceived by our gods again."
The people considered this and agreed that it was wise, and they set to work building a machine in which to house their new god. From the most skilled artisan to the lowest labourer, all sweated and bled to construct their god-machine, which rose to the heavens, challenging the old pantheon with its glory.
Exegi monumentum aere perennius.
The god-machine ruled wisely, and the philosopher-king was glad, for his people were prosperous. They lived their lives as according to the dictates of the god-machine, who guided with justice and mercy to all. And the people multiplied, and grew complacent, having forgotten the hardships they had left behind, and unable to live without the guidance of the god-machine.
It came to pass that a champion, grown arrogant with praise and victory, said, "Why should we remain here when our brethren still toil under the old gods? Should we not liberate them from their oppressors?" And he questioned the god-machine closely, and the god-machine gave consent to war.
The old gods were wroth, and they sent their followers to do battle. Nine times the followers of the god-machine sallied forth, and nine times they were beaten back. Their lands were razed and their homes destroyed; the old gods took no prisoners, gave no quarters, and the god-machine's followers asked for none.
The aged philosopher-king sought counsel from the god-machine, demanding to know why it had brought his people to folly and ruin.
"The matter admits to no explanation," was all the god-machine would say.
Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur.
Seeing that there was no more hope for his people, the philosopher-king gathered his wisest and greatest magicians, and together they wrought a working to save those that they could.
What they had done, no one would ever know. They vanished forevermore from our world and our histories, never to return.
In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.
The followers of the old gods found the god-machine, and burned it to the ground. But they did not know that what they had destroyed was only a shell, and the true god-machine dwells still in the spaces between.
The people of the old gods and the god-machine alike have been forgotten. Time sweeps her scythe without favour or regard to station, and the old wisdoms give way to new follies.
The god-machine waits.
Ecce Homo
Ecce Machina
Ecce Ens Entium
Ecce Dei
Ecce
Lyrical Envy:
The Fall of Babel