A kind of dream, a kind of howl, a kind of hopelessness. Full of unresolved grievances of an ancient time, as well as bizarre anxieties about the future... But what truly makes everything dull and meaningless, is that this book is nothing more than an inferior imitation. Despite our most earnest efforts to understand, nothing can come close to truly describe that great, ancient, and dormant Truth. ...Is that so?
The Truth cannot be seen;
Disciple, you have been seen.
Call out to it, and know its place;
It will not be denied.
And she spoke: "The Truth cannot be seen with our eyes, but the Truth can see me with its own eyes. When the Truth looks upon me, I hear its call and know where it lies."
"No, I reject her Truth. She is but evil incarnate: her smile more sinister than an Eclipsite's glare, her beauty more terrible than the tragedies of the world."
She spoke: "I cannot deny her, for I cannot deny the Truth." She turned, and her red dress danced with her. That dress was special. It moved like flowing water. She turned again, and the dress turned with her, enveloping her, enveloping me.
"No, I reject her Truth once more." The red dress moved as if it were alive, brushing against the ground, sticking to my skin. She spun in a circle, her dress scattering like snow in the wind: falling to the ground, falling on me, falling on my lips. A strange scent flows into my nose, like the blood flowing through my veins.
She spoke: "This is my welcome for you. I hope you will enjoy it." Her eyelashes hung like curtains, her voice like a sound of nature. She looked at me.
"No, I reject her Truth yet again." Blood flowed from her body: it formed her undergarments, then her dress, then the red carpet below her feet. On her head, it formed a blood-red crown.
Her gaze was still upon me, all of her eyes focused on me: the eyes on her body stared at me, the eyes in her hands stared at me, the eyes on her chest stared at me, the eyes on her knees stared at me, the eyes on her back stared at me, the eyes atop her head stared at me.
She saw me. I was seen by her. Scrutinized by her. Scrutinized by the Truth.
"No, I reject her Truth for the fourth time." But my denial meant nothing. She used the eyes on her body to see me, and the eyes that appeared on my body saw me, as well. The eyes on my hands stared at me, the eyes on my back stared at me, the eyes atop my head stared at me. The Truth had made eyes appear on my body, and from that moment on, no matter where I was or what I did... The Truth was always watching.
"The Truth has appeared on your body, and it will always be watching you."
This is what she said to me.
Seemingly everywhere, it exists;
The pain, it swells in an instant.
And everywhere, it should exist;
The flowers, they bloom in a sea of their own blood.
The Truth is all around us: in every rushing river, on every grassy plain, in the darkened skies, and in the endless nights.
On the buds and branches of every tree, and in every seed, flower, and fruit. On every muddy path, and beside every dried waterfall.
It is in the air and before our eyes, around our skin and beneath our feet. It is in every breath that enters our lungs, and every sunbeam that enters our retinas. It walks behind us at all times, brushing lightly against our bodies.
It is on our lips, our teeth, our mouths, our throats, and our stomachs. It is digested, absorbed into our bodies, and passes into our blood.
It is transmitted along our nerves to every corner of our bodies: to the liver, the gallbladder, the small and large intestine, the pancreas, the spleen, and the kidneys. It passes through our bones: the femur, the tibia and fibula, the ankle, and the toes.
The pain is like stubbing a toe on the leg of a table.
It is transmitted along the nerves to the center of our bodies: to the heart, the trachea, the base of the tongue, the nasal cavity, the optic nerves, the brainstem, and the brain. From the skull, it passes through the spine, to the shoulder blades, the elbows, the wrists, and the fingers.
The pain is like having a fingernail ripped out.
It is transmitted through the nerves to the deepest recesses of our bodies: to the bone marrow, the umbilical cord, the abdominal cavity, and into the skull of the unborn child. A seedling grows in the baby's mind, nourished by its thoughts, and blooms into a beautiful flower, its petals dripping with divine color.
Thoughts of the divine shatter into countless pieces, and the baby enters the world drenched in divinity. The world it encounters is a vast, desolate wasteland. Every cry it makes produces a new flower bud, and every tear it sheds colors the world around it with its divinity. As the child continues to cry, the skies shed tears of divinity, as well. Flowers bloom around the child's body, and the wasteland becomes a sacred sea of flowers.
The Truth is all around us.
The mire is the face of the Truth;
The mire is the taste of the Truth.
To swallow it, is to obtain the Truth;
To taste it, is to know the Truth.
How can I describe this feeling?
It's viscous, muddy, and all mixed. I reach my hand into it. It feels slick and smooth, with solid matter suspended within. I can squeeze it, I can knead it, and I can stir it. I cannot fuse with it, and yet it maintains a firm grasp on me. Its warmth spreads all the way to my shoulders.
It is a living creature.
Its meat is fresh and tender, full of nutrients, and can be cooked in myriad ways: it could be fried, roasted, grilled, steamed, or stewed. When I bought it, the packaging said that tasted best when cooked alive.
But how to cut the meat? With every cut, the slimy, sticky mass cleverly avoids my blade, causing it to slide down its side. I hold it down, aim for the thickest part, and slide my blade's edge into it. The mucus-like substance on the surface clamps down on my blade like a giant mouth, refusing to let me cut it.
The water has come to a boil; I have wasted enough time, so I put it into the pot, whole. It slowly slides down the side of the pot, and into the bubbling water. Am I imagining it? The meat seems to be laughing at me, twisting its body and baring its jagged teeth as its slimy membrane dissolves in the water instantly.
It makes a sound, indeed it is laughing. Laughing at me from within the boiling pot, looking at me from within the boiling pot. It stews and steams, and fills the room with a stench. A putrid, fishy stench that bores into my nostrils and bursts within my brain. The squirming, squelching stench scrapes at the inside of my skull, like nails on a chalkboard.
Scraping and laughing, all the while. Suddenly, it speaks to me: "Eat me. Devour me, piece by piece. Taste me. Taste my slimy, sticky being. Taste me, as I burst in your mouth. Feel me slide down your throat, and into your stomach. Let my taste spread throughout your entire body. Let us be of one taste, of one matter, of one existence.
Taste the Truth, and then become the Truth.
Let more and more people taste us, that they may know the Truth, as well.
That day, it will never come;
Believe me, the fall is but a lie.
Death has already come and gone;
But pleasure will never disappear.
The day of the fall will never come. So put your mind at ease. Stay at her side, and enjoy the beauties of life, as you please.
Laugh with mirth, and look at your love, and her smile which never fades. Hold her, dance, and spin with her, every second of every day. Eat some sweets and run in the sun, then watch it descend in the air. Imagine your future, imagine the child that she, for you, will bear.
Cry with joy, cry in the rain, and let your tears mix with those of the sky. The day that you fear will never come, and your tears will someday dry. And when they do, her smile will shine once more upon her face. The rain will return to the sea and the sky, and all will be in its place.
The day of the fall will never come.
Run and chase her to your heart's content, indulge in your joy, and sing. Hold her in your arms and ride into the sunset, and see what love will bring. With nobody waiting and no goal to follow, you ride at your own pace. Gallop full-speed and enjoy the sensation of the wind across your face. Run to the ends of the world without pause. Nothing can break your stride. The sun will always rise again, and the next day will always arrive.
The day of the fall will never come.
And in the dark, in the moon's soft light, her eyes shine brighter than starlight. Count them in the sky, watch the moon wax and wane, and enjoy the tranquility of night. Her grace in the moonlight, it puts to shame the heavenly bodies above. Her crescent smile, her brilliant eyes, they shine with the warmth of love. With hair black as night, and a voice like a nightingale, she whispers in your ear: "I shall always be with you, so stay by my side forevermore, my dear."
The day of the fall will never come. It will definitely never come.
She smiles with a beauty not seen in this world, her gaze both bright and wide.
"That day will never come," she says, "For I am always by your side."