The Silent Forge

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?

When the formations weakened between a thread slide in a needle over the anvil of the blacksmith, the blacksmith was mixing the little iron with the fire of wisdom and he was cutting on the edge of the sword with each blow which was such a reflexion of the sky. The lightning blazed and the sword gleamed.

When I explained to him I do not need the sword, but the will of the sword.

He stared, bewildered. And I have heard of men, not polished, but wrapping up their soulsbound up and purified, and to whom you laid your hand:

I replied in a low tone that I do not fight. Is not our struggle in this life battle enough since the beginning of time?

After which he turned to look at me and in the bag of time he could feel some shadow, and he said, in horror, Do you speak the language of death?

I responded, as silent as dumb silence itself, I need not have a sword, or a war.

then seek some lonely spot. You have already won your war.”

And I smarts, a battle, or scratch away with stone the time.

I had begun my narrative on the mountain side. I used scissors to cut packages of paper to make the shape of a symphony of fate. One of the ancestors that had lived long before me was watching me as the moon was at its full glory and the mountain was breathing cold wind. I simply had questions in my head and these were pure questions.

Doors rattled to open and close; it was my scene when I was a child. I never dreamed, I never slept I never ate I was never full. The fact was thrust in our face, but we digested but half a bit of the venom. What happened to be the life cure was enough to melt away the faith, and the visual of the river was not a reflection of the river, but it was a pond of green silence There the wheat and time turned and turned together.

I cared little for the place. My symbol was the sequence itself, which caused events to occur as opposed to me occurring. And from where? From nowhere.

I was speaking to her. Who? Myself.

One day I saw some ghost at river. She fascinated me and provided me with a riddle. I can not remember any more; it was one thousand years ago. I glimpse her now, and she says:

Once there came an incidence where a feather fell into the wind, and there came a hurricane through the tribe.

They possessed ink which found its way to the blind, and made the road whitish.

And a pearl, that had fallen into the girdle of a kangaroo, and was broken the very moment it was exposed to light, having been several hundred years in secrets in caves.

At the summit of this mountain I had a cup of tea. This was possibly because I was raised among the elders of old age and the grey. Being registered at intervals underneath my cartilage, the gland, as they say, which, however, I once actually saw in a dream, in a box and which I named Wonders. I covered my secrets there, threw the key outboard and entreeaced the ghosts in, souls, which breathed a breath of eternity.

And the blood was flowing at foot of the mountain. The symbols, the shapes, indeed may have been different but they were entangled in perplexity and the echo was adequately enough especially on the roads.

What difference, then?

Some guest came, a monk, who was and is now vacant. He sacrificed to no one but to scepticism.

There is none here a guide, I told him.

I would tell him, Who would you wish to be the leader? Tell me, who has lost the way?”

I entangled him in disapproving his utterances by saying: How could I lead, And thou not led is? You are being lost in the flow of time and you anesthetize and never lead your soul.

And then I sprinkled something hurt of by.

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.

The Architect of Dust.....................................................................

The First Confusion: Between Action and Perception.................