The Architect of Dust

THIS ARTICLE IS A PART OF THE SERIES “Metaphysical Echoes — صدى ما وراء الوعي,”

Although my awareness is limited, I wrote this series when I realized I am still blind to the world and perphaps to myself

What about you?

Have you felt the same confusin between awareness,action and resistance beneath the weight of this fragile existence?

What have you truly realized?

One after another, in a table of cosmic dust, each pebble of sand swung round clockwise or anticlockwise, as though it directed wave and linear currents in the very structure of space.

It was as though a picture by a forgotten painter, who was nourishing his world with his blood.

As he pressed the paint, his soul declined, yet the brush never rusted.

In his turn, the writer has an ink that is red, and it is running dry yet never-ending.

He composes interrelated paragraphs even though the gaps are already there.

In his turn, the interlocutor reflects on an infinite universe:

“Yet how should it then live after this life? Where do its boundaries end? Is it finite, or are we?”

He simplifies the possibilities, which rise in the form of thoughts, and then contract as they dissipate.

What of a universe in which language is infinite?

The numerous translations were made; however, no one has ever understood its real nature, to form doubt and certainty.

So the search is in progress… to where?

The moon here, the sun there, and a star sinks in the darkness of a universe that swims, flies, and never strikes.

It shines and burns, and in its backdrop a grey cloud mingled with blue, a flame of fire follows, leaving molds along its course, leaving the taste of burning in them.

It is the void that retrieves its remains to build a new meaning, stuffing its vacuum with something symbolic, shuffling its systems to establish a state of balance between nothingness.

Life was born of its ashes, and of its features was drawn in ashes.

I knew a seeker of wisdom who would fain view the universe as his own property.

I told him, “It is not the property of anybody, not even you; it possesses power over you.

Wisdom is not a sought-out thing but learned in loneliness.

See singly: wisdom is not a glass reflection of us, but a reflection of its refractions.”

I do not mean by this a person of low opinion, but the idea:

None of us are wise; we are all idiots in the ripples of our dreams.

It is an oral sentence, wisdom speaks many mouths, on which to frame a semi-clear way, but it breaks again and again.

It would be reborn a thousand times, before or after the birth of Christ.

They remarked, “Was there no existence before Christ?”

Fools made fun of life by diminishing it to the inception of an idea.

Is there a beginning of the universe?

Or was it all that was imagined to have been the beginning but a phase of building up, already by the machining of an entire overthrow?

When I was certain, an angel whispered in my ear:

“Go down, the universe is tilting towards degradation.”

I told him, “So will the abyss become a summit?”

He said, “Are you gambling?”

“Who bets me?” I said, in a low voice.

“Those,” he said, “as you, who lived to say to me that the answer to the question itself lies lurking in the aspect of the query.”

And there I saw many like me, and I had the honour to encounter them — other angels.

From a moral point of view, beings may be angelic when they take the way of their soul.

So to him I made a sarcastic remark:

“What is wrong with humans, do you know?

They are fooling themselves with liberty; hence some of them are tyrannical, and there is darkness in most of them.

Life creates a spirit which dismantles the system of false freedom, but the price is new tyranny.

That is a pearl that existed in evil and cannot enlighten life.”

“As for you, O hidden selves, you will be wrapped up in the shades without the newsome light penetrating your spirit.”

And I smirked and told him, “I am a human, and I know that my self can be destroyed as much as it can be built.”

Laughing, he said, “I know, but you do not know that you are a good master at it.

You can build another system with the ruins, even when you want to destroy it.”

I noticed a person speaking to himself.

Curiosity then aroused me, and I mentioned to him, “Are you thinking out loud?”

“I am crying to lost souls,” he said, “that with hopes my voice will not fail them, in this world, but in my other world.”

I asked him, “Are you crazy?”

“Dumb silly,” he said, “but maybe my behavior has more effect.”

Then I realized that he was speaking to a soul that passed out of the heart of people.

So I proceeded my way into the unknown, my head full of puzzling thoughts that formed a different sense, and a great gladness that ran through my soul.

It is not all over with pleasure yet, and it is a black jest as nihilism, that provokes the rapture of mystery.

I am no more than a lover of mystery — as a conundrum to a child to guess.

So I began to enjoy my maze, and each labyrinth bears a vital concept which I feel and unwind, to make sense in drawing a path, a way of mine which loveth walking.

And it does not wish to see the finishing, but instead dwells on the way, on the stops, and on its centre, which engineers its goal to the unknown.

Series: Metaphysical Echoes — صدى ما وراء الوعي

Author: LUCCIAN.LAYTH

Follow for upcoming chapters exploring the metaphysics of being and consciousness.

Perhaps it was an ethereal dream accompanied by a flicker of awareness that trembled beneath transparent meanings, striking you with a confusion that was not a flaw, but rather a gift from existence itself; to truly test you: will you bear it? Or will you look at it with the gaze of a blind man at sunlight and the moon's sheath? What is confusion and bewilderment? Without them, can we say that we are beings who have realised or realised when we were lost and confused? Or is the moment of bewilderment that precedes realisation the very spark of consciousness? Is confusion the beginning of realisation, or does it precede it, foreshadowing what is to come? The meaning here remains ambiguous, and perhaps there is only one way to unravel it: a steady stream of questions that seem tedious at first glance, but which alone reveal meaning when certainty exhausts us.