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The Word

 It had been his intention to write a wondrous story, one that conveyed the beauty inherent in all things, and which expressed his love and awe of them.

Sadly, when he searched his mind, he found in it nothing but blank spaces. Thoughts seemed hidden beyond the veils of mystery, and imagination appeared suspended above his sight. He struggled to formulate ideas, to construct words and sentences, yet nought emerged except the stillness of silence. Time directed a compassionate glance at him, as it passed by.

He remained at his desk, strewn with empty pages waiting to be filled with all manner of excited happenings creating visions of colour. The pen gazed up at him mournfully, as he sank back against his chair, weary of mind and exhausted of heart.

His mind whispered,

"I must go and seek rest. I need to disengage from this your endeavour."

He pleaded,

"Please do not leave. Not just now. I am trying to think, attempting to write. You must help."

"I will certainly assist you, as I always do. But I am indeed tired, so I am unable to help you in my current state."

"Yes," he sighed, " it is true. I have become unreasonable of late, expecting too much of you, doing little myself. I simply wish to write, to immerse myself in a new world created by the wonder of words. I know I must await their arrival from the realm of inspiration."

He did not want to let go, but it had become useless to persist. He therefore resolved to relax, and thereupon closed his eyes. Sleep delivered him to the abode of rest.

Upon awakening, he realised it was very late. The day had retired and night had ascended. He sensed a compelling presence in the room. There was no fear in him, only curiousity as he turned. Immediately to his right, he saw his favourite Author smiling at him.

"You were writing?" enquired the Author.

"Trying to," he replied.

"Keep trying."

"I see no point, I cannot write."

"Yes you can, but you must believe."

The Author looked directly into his eyes, a gaze that pierced his mind and caused his heart to tremble. Silence enfolded them for a while, the Author's beautiful countenance alive with light.

"How did you arrive?" he asked.

"You invited me," replied the Author.

"How?" he was startled.

"You remembered me."

"Will you stay and help me? I am alone."

"I am with you whenever you remember me. Those who remember are never forgotten, whereas those who forget shall not be remembered," stated the Author quietly.

"I wonder, may I leave with you?" he asked, tentatively.

"No, not just yet."

Upon saying this, the Author faded from view. He experienced immeasurable pain as he saw his beloved Author depart. This was soon replaced by a strange kind of peace, as his mind and heart reflected inner illumination.

He felt a floating sensation. Truly wonderful. Yet, was he not in his room, striving to write a masterpiece, an epic, in fact, anything, however trivial, mundane, or nonsensical?

When he opened his eyes, his room had receded into fragments of dust, and he became conscious that he was indeed in motion. High, high up into the far reaches of space, escorted by time, diamond lights revealing the way. He cared not whether this was dream or vision, it was of little consequence. He became absorbed between the realms of waking and sleeping, dreaming and awakening, appearance and reality.

He glanced down to see what he was floating upon. It was his imagination and perception. There were delicate, intricate patterns weaved into the fabric, the material seemingly composed of a thousand words and more. He strained his eyes in order to read them, but was unable to. He gave up the attempt, and surrended himself to the journey beyond the seen, into the world of the unseen.

He was transported to wherever his heart guided him, and encountered things his mind could never have concieved. He entered places teeming with life, and others that were empty, barren of all existence. In whatever place he ventured into, he heard gentle whispers or raucous shouts. His eyes alighted upon surfaces etched with new and living words.

Everything was composed of sound and light, creating worlds of movement which were hardly ever still or silent. These realms wrote to the hidden soul, manifesting their meanings by speaking in languages unknown.

He lifted his eyes to the darkened skies, and as the crescent moon smiled, they engaged in converse. The stars joined in, so too did the revolving planets. The heavens bore witness to these discourses, and bestowed a glow of light upon them. He travelled onwards and upwards. Seeing before him words being written by all things, their movements describing words, their purpose reading them. He saw words being formed from the formless, stating truths from the stateless. He witnessed all that his senses were able to absorb, and interpreted everything his reason could comprehend.

Eventually, he arrived at a place where the sun beamed brightly, and he halted to speak with it for a short while. The rays of the sun pierced through the electric blue of the sky, the rays transformed into pens, and the sky into paper, as a new composition was written for the world.

These graceful words appeared on land and sea. The shadows which were formed from shelters and shades, resembled calligraphic writing. The rippling of the waves upon the oceans created impressions of an endless procession of words, dancing upon the air and singing to creatures both near and far. An invitation thus having been issued, creatures too made to write, and their destinies became known. Hands unseen continued to write upon the pages of time, and space expanded too make room for the things created by the words.

All this he saw, and the beauty of it was breathtaking. He ascended, his imagination enlivened and his perception widened. Suddenly, he was stopped, and gently guided away. Then followed his descent. This was the boundary, the limit of thought and experience had been attained. He could travel no further nor any higher. Upon his downward journey, he bore witness to the rising and falling, ascending and descending, revolving and returning of all things. The very breath of creation was inhaling and exhaling, and this process brought into being the living and dying. He thought of things as seeking to reach the upper heavens, but they inevitably fell back, being absorbed into the matter from which they emerged.

He did not want his travelling to cease. But, where there was a beginning, an end had to follow.He wondered what his favourite Author would have made of this journey? He wished for the Author to explain to him the meaning of all that had occured.

A great trembling and shaking shook his entire being. Once again, he opened his eyes, and discovered his room surrounding him. He was overwhelmed with grief. He had not wished to return to his abode, he had hoped he could float forever in the infinite embrace of time, the different dimensions speaking to him of their secrets, the worlds unknown writing to him words of truth.

He gazed down at his desk, at the blank pages and at the pens full of ink. Lightening seemed to strike at his heart, and his mind thundered. Then, cascades of words flooded his soul, he was taken aback by their number and force. He took up a pen, and it smiled up at him encouragingly, as the paper invited him to employ it in his endeavour. His imagination and perception unfolded themselves, and he read the words written upon them. From the hidden, the manifest emerged.

Creation was a composition of beautiful words, he intended to bring into being a new creation by writing a few words of truth. Wherever he had journeyed and whatever he had witnessed, there he had percieved words written by the movement of time, and all it contained. These languages were as yet incomprehensible to him, perhaps because the language of time was unfathomable.

His hand raced across the page, his mind and heart content, his soul inspired. At last he was doing that which he had longed to do, he no longer felt alone. He was entering a new world coming into being at his behest. His beloved Author, remaining in the realm of the unseen, stood nearby and smiled, his eyes bestowing the light of belief into the heart of the writer.

 

 

 
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