Some nights, I can't block his voice out in my head. Hermes calls to me, and I wonder if I'm going mad. So I shall give you the same advice I give myself. I urge you, listen to the night, and when you hear your name whispered outside, rise, for you have been chosen. Hermes isn't such a major God, but he carries scars the big three shudder to imagine.
Rise from your bed and walk outside, into the cold, the rain, whatever the weather, if you hear your name, walk outside. You will find no one waiting for you. No one except the street, the street that seemed friendly and familiar in the day, now it looks like an enigma with so much more to say.
I know I've said this before, but the next time you're outside, please look down, the shards of glass buried in the gravel have much more to tell you than the stars buried in the blackness above you.
The next time you walk on the street, I beg you, if you ever do come across glass shards on the road, I beg you to stop and kneel, say a prayer. A moment of silence for all the happy moments that shattered with that glass. A moment of silence for the family now shattered, like the glass on the road. A moment of silence for lovers broken, like the glass on the road. A moment of silence for the glass on the road, because it has so many stories to tell you, and none of them end well.
This is what we do. Sons and daughters of Hermes, self proclaimed believers, wanderers, travelers. He who travels knows more of life, and he who knows more is by law, empathetic. Because he has no choice. Because he's seen everything the world has to offer, all the dirt in the universe distilled in something so small and common as shards of glass on the road.
Weep. Let the road tell you stories, and weep as the road does every single day. Weep for the jungle it replaced, weep for the existence it never asked for. Weep for the universe of untold stories left on the floor, fragments of the past.
Weep for the shards of glass on the road.
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