This is a meaningless story. - Discussion
| This is a meaningless story. | Jeremy May | 10/10/14 4:54 PM |
RE: This is a meaningless story.
|
Not Tao | 10/10/14 11:19 PM |
One of those days when my body just didn't want to cooperate... So I practiced writing. I like my little story! I don't expect anyone to read it and think much of it... but maybe you will like my story like I do?
There once occurred an event at a time of beauty, forgotten by history so long ago that it exists in the world today only as a faded shadow of a memory, like an echo that has lost its path of cliffs and deep places. It was a time when there were not many people in the world. There were very few places, because of this, in which the conditions could exist for the arising of villages. In this time of no countries, no cities, no races, there was one particular village where there was living a group of people that seemed so strange that no-one, not one human being from outside this village ever chose to stay and live.
There is a great mystery in the fact that in this time in the world, the race of humanity was unhappy. The world was free of any vice that we carry in the modern society today. There was no disease. There was no hunger. Why did such people in such times hate the world that they lived in? They could not say why they hated the world. But they said, and they said it with one voice, "I know that I hate the world I live in. Knowing why I hate the world is useless! Anyone who asks 'Why?' is a lunatic or a fool. We can not change the world, so we choose to be wise as only we are wise, and the cost of the magicks that our wisdom gives us is the lunacy that gives anyone Joy."
They lived for many times longer than people do in the world today, yet they all seemed to waste their gift of long life, even each hour of each day, crying. They walked and cried. They rested and cried. They slept and even cried when they slept. The leaders cried with no tears and declared that this way of crying was to be known across the whole world as the wisest way. The leaders pretended that because they had declared the wisest way of all the world that they deserved to own everything, deserved the power of giving and taking based on their whims, which was also soon declared to be part of the wisest way. The 'wisest way' became a creed, a religion, and the only philosophy.
Back and forth these people cried and cried. Some cried so much that they became blind, but what is sad about these blinded mourners was the fact that they did not notice that they had even been struck blind! And they never knew.
When a baby was born in this time of the world, it was born crying. Young children played in the fields and lakes, but their games were games of grief and when they played, they cried. Young men and women met and had children without ever knowing if the other was beautiful, or tender, or even if whether or not there had ever existed a mate or children. They had missed too much information, unable to hear over all the sounds of sobbing in the air. And in days, after hundreds of years, a person began to tire, to exhaust himself in his core, his Death should have been the sweet embrace of a loving parent... but when the embrace was there in all its incomprehensible sweetness, the poor people would only claw at the air and cry with the force of every sharp sorrow of their long life, and the sound of it was a song. It was a song that touched every song of that time of the world. The sound of all the cries from all the people in all the world was like the sound of a cosmic birth, the thunder of an angry star, the pain in the strings of an eternal violin, the sound of a last hope when it vanishes from the realm of the orphans. It echoed beyond and outside of time with a strength of a holy desire, so clearly and in a manner so profound that we can hear the song, hear it as a memory, and know the story as if it was an echo simply lost in its way, a whisper that only the quiet can hear.
This echo, this great and terrible sound, was heard by peoples of other worlds, other times, and other realms. In places so distant and so different from our little planet that they can only be described by Lies, creatures with a billion heads would look up from their morning drink of blood and wine that poured like rivers from the bellys of giant beasts that knew secrets. In places that were closer to our little planet, even there the sound brought angels the size of moons out of caves that were made of fire and hidden away in holes that could not be seen. In places all over the endless universe, the sound affected the attention of all the beings in the endless universe that were quiet enough to hear whispers. What followed the sound, as if all along it had only been but the short and joyful blast of a horn, was something too magnificent to be considered as anything but meaningless and random.
When the beings that were quiet, in whatever time and place they were, heard the cries of the people of our little planet, they connected. They stopped. It was all at the same time, even though the silent ones of all worlds live in different eras. It was a moment where connection was communication, but not just communication. It was a decision, but also it could never be called 'something chosen'. It was absolutely nothing because nothing seemed to happen in this mysterious moment. Yet something happened later, because of this moment where nothing happened.
In any great moment where nothing happens, You must also say that it is a Glorious moment because, also, Everything happened.
In one of the places that was close to our little planet, a place that doesn't exist anymore because it was an old place, and old places, like tired people, become exhausted from their core and die into the embrace of a parent. But before this old and very wise little planet would ever vanish, an angel, a creature that had understood all secrets, loved all babies, all children, all men and women, and all planets, begin to first move very gently, as She had been holding up the sky of that frail, withered world on which he had lived for ages.
It could have taken the time needed to throw a comet to a star, or it could have been only the time it took to breath out what you have inhaled, but in some manner of time the angel began to move less and less gently, heaving the sky from one arm to the other in order to move her head, her neck, her legs. She wanted to hear the sad song of our world well enough to know if the time had finally come when she should not hold up that faded heaven. But Angels are told not to make decisions and so even when the Angel moved her entire body around, except for the one hand that could not move even gently, she could not know what to do.
The planet began to tell a story.
That is a different story; what was told to the Angel is a secret that we will never know, but with her free hand she pulled back the curtain that supports the villages of stars and, with the force of a thousand suns she threw the sky as hard as she could and turned away forever. What happened to the planet? Did the sky take one last age to fall? Did it die for a reason or for the absence of a reason? It is a secret that is like a jewel that lasts forever, but is never unearthed.
The story does not end with any happy ending. It is not a good story. ..
With the swiftness of a shiver, she came to our own planet and arrived to no welcome. There was no recognition, no awareness that any arrival had taken place. This is a mystery because the body of the angel was a streak of lightning, a pool of water that flooded a valley after a bird falls into a puddle (having been frightened to death by lightning), and then the angel was a tree that grew from the seed carried from that valley to a village of a people who did not cry. If they saw the body of the angel, they stayed quiet.
Another mystery is in the knowledge that the voice of an angel is great, terrible, and loud, but it must have been too much, to a fault of uselessness, because the angel called to the people of the world but they only heard thunder and the crashing sounds of a tsunami. The greeting was full of love, but the only beings that noticed were in the village of the silent ones, the new home of the tree, and these quiet villagers stayed quiet.
When the Tree that was part of the Angel began to grow much more than trees should grow, the silent ones tended to its needs. When it grew to a size that hills should not grow, the silent ones left the safety of the ground and became people who lived in its branches. When the strange, miraculous tree of the Angel began to grow more than a river should, a size so terrible that finally the people who cried, in every corner of the Earth, finally stopped crying!! They had seen the Tree! They began to trickle, bit by bit, toward the angel.
The silent ones moved down into the bark of the branches, deeper and deeper until they became the people who lived in its Roots.
The Angel spoke. The people who had gathered could not understand her because of the distance of her mouth and because they could not understand the language of trees. She told them of her gifts to them. The tree burst in flowers that were promises of pleasure, promises of a divine fruit that would come in only a few mere weeks...
There was a migration. No person had ever seen a tree that did not make them cry! They told each other, in spasms between sobs that 'there is a thing in the world I do not hate.' They said this as if in one voice, not knowing that they did not know why they did not hate this tree, only that it was true.
They came in masses until the Angel could not see their faces, but instead could only see a liquid sea of thick syrup, dark and wet, noisy and tidal, rising in size until the roots, bark, branches, and leaves of the tree were covered in crying people that clung like slime clings to warmth. The angel thought that perhaps she should not have come. Should she leave? She could not know because angels cannot decide their actions.
She could not decide and she could not regret, so she took a deep breath and prepared to have her tree destroyed, which would loosen her tie to the world, which would hide her again from the world.
She felt the pull of the weight of the crowds. She felt their suffering in both of her cores, that of her tree and that of her spirit body. The pain of the desperation in their childish senses were so severe to her that it was nothing at all when the branches were torn off in horrible spasms of terror, torn clean away simply from the weight of all those lost beings trying to hold to her, then her bark was peeled off in the clawing of those who tried climbing up her body without branches. It would have given her so much pain that epic poems could have been born, but in understanding the noisy and terrible orphans that killed her slowly was more than what any physical pain can muster. It caused something like Death. It caused her heart to break.
Ever piece of the great and wide trunk of her tree body was eaten by those who once declared the Law of their wisest ways. The leaders who use to own everything had been the last to come to the tree, the last to leave the ruin to which they perceived a thing they did not hate, the most desperate of the tormented who, having nothing more than a desire to own the ruin of the great tree, were also the most vicious and carnivorous of all the people of this time of our little planet. They insatiably tore into every piece of wood-flesh they could find, and they did so at such a pace that they unknowingly disregarded their bodies until their knees began to bleed and their skin began to swell in places. They ate away the Great Tree until it was gone and there were only roots left and the roots were too deep to reach.
The world was still as beautiful as it had ever been. The blessings from the universe came as they had always come. But something was not the same. But the moment that forever will be frozen in the hearts of all quiet beings is this part of the Song of Crying: The Angel was thrown by the force of the "first evil deed" deep into another world that needed her. Around what was left of the Great tree, hills turned over and discarded, covered in corpses, painted in the color of shame and the juices of the first disease. There were more dead people than living people in the world. Those who were left never forgot the memory of having, for that moment that it is true, just a hold on a piece of her. It was the first Hunger of the world.
When enough silence had passed that silence was no longer important, there came the first music of our little planet, deep and rhythmic like the beating of a strong heart: low, strong, rising and rising from a deep place under the ground (under the scarred place of which the sacred, untouched roots of goodness grew like a love that can't be forgotten). The music erupted like volcanic dances that scattered pieces of the great roots so high into the sky that they became colors, so far that they become the sparkles that settle every morning on the dew. The silent ones were not silent after all. They had only been waiting for something to say...
I don't know what the end of the story is so this ending will have to do
There once occurred an event at a time of beauty, forgotten by history so long ago that it exists in the world today only as a faded shadow of a memory, like an echo that has lost its path of cliffs and deep places. It was a time when there were not many people in the world. There were very few places, because of this, in which the conditions could exist for the arising of villages. In this time of no countries, no cities, no races, there was one particular village where there was living a group of people that seemed so strange that no-one, not one human being from outside this village ever chose to stay and live.
There is a great mystery in the fact that in this time in the world, the race of humanity was unhappy. The world was free of any vice that we carry in the modern society today. There was no disease. There was no hunger. Why did such people in such times hate the world that they lived in? They could not say why they hated the world. But they said, and they said it with one voice, "I know that I hate the world I live in. Knowing why I hate the world is useless! Anyone who asks 'Why?' is a lunatic or a fool. We can not change the world, so we choose to be wise as only we are wise, and the cost of the magicks that our wisdom gives us is the lunacy that gives anyone Joy."
They lived for many times longer than people do in the world today, yet they all seemed to waste their gift of long life, even each hour of each day, crying. They walked and cried. They rested and cried. They slept and even cried when they slept. The leaders cried with no tears and declared that this way of crying was to be known across the whole world as the wisest way. The leaders pretended that because they had declared the wisest way of all the world that they deserved to own everything, deserved the power of giving and taking based on their whims, which was also soon declared to be part of the wisest way. The 'wisest way' became a creed, a religion, and the only philosophy.
Back and forth these people cried and cried. Some cried so much that they became blind, but what is sad about these blinded mourners was the fact that they did not notice that they had even been struck blind! And they never knew.
When a baby was born in this time of the world, it was born crying. Young children played in the fields and lakes, but their games were games of grief and when they played, they cried. Young men and women met and had children without ever knowing if the other was beautiful, or tender, or even if whether or not there had ever existed a mate or children. They had missed too much information, unable to hear over all the sounds of sobbing in the air. And in days, after hundreds of years, a person began to tire, to exhaust himself in his core, his Death should have been the sweet embrace of a loving parent... but when the embrace was there in all its incomprehensible sweetness, the poor people would only claw at the air and cry with the force of every sharp sorrow of their long life, and the sound of it was a song. It was a song that touched every song of that time of the world. The sound of all the cries from all the people in all the world was like the sound of a cosmic birth, the thunder of an angry star, the pain in the strings of an eternal violin, the sound of a last hope when it vanishes from the realm of the orphans. It echoed beyond and outside of time with a strength of a holy desire, so clearly and in a manner so profound that we can hear the song, hear it as a memory, and know the story as if it was an echo simply lost in its way, a whisper that only the quiet can hear.
This echo, this great and terrible sound, was heard by peoples of other worlds, other times, and other realms. In places so distant and so different from our little planet that they can only be described by Lies, creatures with a billion heads would look up from their morning drink of blood and wine that poured like rivers from the bellys of giant beasts that knew secrets. In places that were closer to our little planet, even there the sound brought angels the size of moons out of caves that were made of fire and hidden away in holes that could not be seen. In places all over the endless universe, the sound affected the attention of all the beings in the endless universe that were quiet enough to hear whispers. What followed the sound, as if all along it had only been but the short and joyful blast of a horn, was something too magnificent to be considered as anything but meaningless and random.
When the beings that were quiet, in whatever time and place they were, heard the cries of the people of our little planet, they connected. They stopped. It was all at the same time, even though the silent ones of all worlds live in different eras. It was a moment where connection was communication, but not just communication. It was a decision, but also it could never be called 'something chosen'. It was absolutely nothing because nothing seemed to happen in this mysterious moment. Yet something happened later, because of this moment where nothing happened.
In any great moment where nothing happens, You must also say that it is a Glorious moment because, also, Everything happened.
In one of the places that was close to our little planet, a place that doesn't exist anymore because it was an old place, and old places, like tired people, become exhausted from their core and die into the embrace of a parent. But before this old and very wise little planet would ever vanish, an angel, a creature that had understood all secrets, loved all babies, all children, all men and women, and all planets, begin to first move very gently, as She had been holding up the sky of that frail, withered world on which he had lived for ages.
It could have taken the time needed to throw a comet to a star, or it could have been only the time it took to breath out what you have inhaled, but in some manner of time the angel began to move less and less gently, heaving the sky from one arm to the other in order to move her head, her neck, her legs. She wanted to hear the sad song of our world well enough to know if the time had finally come when she should not hold up that faded heaven. But Angels are told not to make decisions and so even when the Angel moved her entire body around, except for the one hand that could not move even gently, she could not know what to do.
The planet began to tell a story.
That is a different story; what was told to the Angel is a secret that we will never know, but with her free hand she pulled back the curtain that supports the villages of stars and, with the force of a thousand suns she threw the sky as hard as she could and turned away forever. What happened to the planet? Did the sky take one last age to fall? Did it die for a reason or for the absence of a reason? It is a secret that is like a jewel that lasts forever, but is never unearthed.
The story does not end with any happy ending. It is not a good story. ..
With the swiftness of a shiver, she came to our own planet and arrived to no welcome. There was no recognition, no awareness that any arrival had taken place. This is a mystery because the body of the angel was a streak of lightning, a pool of water that flooded a valley after a bird falls into a puddle (having been frightened to death by lightning), and then the angel was a tree that grew from the seed carried from that valley to a village of a people who did not cry. If they saw the body of the angel, they stayed quiet.
Another mystery is in the knowledge that the voice of an angel is great, terrible, and loud, but it must have been too much, to a fault of uselessness, because the angel called to the people of the world but they only heard thunder and the crashing sounds of a tsunami. The greeting was full of love, but the only beings that noticed were in the village of the silent ones, the new home of the tree, and these quiet villagers stayed quiet.
When the Tree that was part of the Angel began to grow much more than trees should grow, the silent ones tended to its needs. When it grew to a size that hills should not grow, the silent ones left the safety of the ground and became people who lived in its branches. When the strange, miraculous tree of the Angel began to grow more than a river should, a size so terrible that finally the people who cried, in every corner of the Earth, finally stopped crying!! They had seen the Tree! They began to trickle, bit by bit, toward the angel.
The silent ones moved down into the bark of the branches, deeper and deeper until they became the people who lived in its Roots.
The Angel spoke. The people who had gathered could not understand her because of the distance of her mouth and because they could not understand the language of trees. She told them of her gifts to them. The tree burst in flowers that were promises of pleasure, promises of a divine fruit that would come in only a few mere weeks...
There was a migration. No person had ever seen a tree that did not make them cry! They told each other, in spasms between sobs that 'there is a thing in the world I do not hate.' They said this as if in one voice, not knowing that they did not know why they did not hate this tree, only that it was true.
They came in masses until the Angel could not see their faces, but instead could only see a liquid sea of thick syrup, dark and wet, noisy and tidal, rising in size until the roots, bark, branches, and leaves of the tree were covered in crying people that clung like slime clings to warmth. The angel thought that perhaps she should not have come. Should she leave? She could not know because angels cannot decide their actions.
She could not decide and she could not regret, so she took a deep breath and prepared to have her tree destroyed, which would loosen her tie to the world, which would hide her again from the world.
She felt the pull of the weight of the crowds. She felt their suffering in both of her cores, that of her tree and that of her spirit body. The pain of the desperation in their childish senses were so severe to her that it was nothing at all when the branches were torn off in horrible spasms of terror, torn clean away simply from the weight of all those lost beings trying to hold to her, then her bark was peeled off in the clawing of those who tried climbing up her body without branches. It would have given her so much pain that epic poems could have been born, but in understanding the noisy and terrible orphans that killed her slowly was more than what any physical pain can muster. It caused something like Death. It caused her heart to break.
Ever piece of the great and wide trunk of her tree body was eaten by those who once declared the Law of their wisest ways. The leaders who use to own everything had been the last to come to the tree, the last to leave the ruin to which they perceived a thing they did not hate, the most desperate of the tormented who, having nothing more than a desire to own the ruin of the great tree, were also the most vicious and carnivorous of all the people of this time of our little planet. They insatiably tore into every piece of wood-flesh they could find, and they did so at such a pace that they unknowingly disregarded their bodies until their knees began to bleed and their skin began to swell in places. They ate away the Great Tree until it was gone and there were only roots left and the roots were too deep to reach.
The world was still as beautiful as it had ever been. The blessings from the universe came as they had always come. But something was not the same. But the moment that forever will be frozen in the hearts of all quiet beings is this part of the Song of Crying: The Angel was thrown by the force of the "first evil deed" deep into another world that needed her. Around what was left of the Great tree, hills turned over and discarded, covered in corpses, painted in the color of shame and the juices of the first disease. There were more dead people than living people in the world. Those who were left never forgot the memory of having, for that moment that it is true, just a hold on a piece of her. It was the first Hunger of the world.
When enough silence had passed that silence was no longer important, there came the first music of our little planet, deep and rhythmic like the beating of a strong heart: low, strong, rising and rising from a deep place under the ground (under the scarred place of which the sacred, untouched roots of goodness grew like a love that can't be forgotten). The music erupted like volcanic dances that scattered pieces of the great roots so high into the sky that they became colors, so far that they become the sparkles that settle every morning on the dew. The silent ones were not silent after all. They had only been waiting for something to say...
I don't know what the end of the story is so this ending will have to do
