And so the wind carries the clouds
As the sea carries grains of sand
The heart begets fading,
Your life is that which binds you.
To the water, to the ground, we all shall return.
You who is as light as air, you must yearn for your primordial mind…
The heart begets fading,
Your life is that which binds you.
A thoughtless, beautiful existence, drifting among the currents
A wandering interrupted, an enlightenment snuffed out.
The heart begets fading,
Your life is that which binds you.
Those wish to tempt you astray
Will not last as the sun and moon spin.
The heart begets fading,
Your life is that which binds you.
So, then, my gentlest dear
let my pure, unblemished hand guide you—
Back to oblivion
Back to the abyss,
For I shall settle as grains of dust here on land,
And you, as mottled flecks of marine snow.
—
Her motionless body fits perfectly on her lap. Translucent, glassy, soft and pale. Tendrils of white splay motionlessly out in curtained ribbons, refracting nothing except pure blankness and empty space.
Only the sound of silent breathing signals that the two are alive. A frilled chest slowly moves to the tune of a rhythmic, floury heart, steadied by a metronome of disciplined apathy within her mind. An ocean drips from down on alabaster clouds, but the pounding of waves cannot stop her. It cannot untether them. Only a single drop is allowed per the endless, infinite expanse, and it too disappears as soon as it emerges into existence.
Steady time, glistening pulse. Barely a disturbed grain of ivory within a realm both reflecting and refracting. Nary a wind dares to disturb both the silence and the two entwined, and nary a ripple dares to undo whatever work has been built here.
Two in mind, frighteningly still to the outside observer. A hand moves as fate does to cradle the smaller star, clutching it with not an ounce of force, meaning or endurance. Its thumb rolls over the canvas of that body, distilled in seclusion except for the joining of themselves, except that of which touch represents, not in the senses but in the mind but the knowledge of the world, the disbanding of existence.
Two hands can join each other in solitude, unwavering and harmonious. Where there is one soul another will gather; where there is life, more life will gather. For the ants crawl up the pagoda’s walls, eager to match their way inside, and the fish swim in circles through decorative ponds, eager to find the heavens.
Perception comes into a fletching arrow, a detachment of a single limb. It floats aimlessly up towards the bleached horizon, also stripped of its passion and aching. Stinging cells cease as that hand plucks yet another one; the glass drums within the temple ring as they struck, bending as they land upon hearing ears.
One, two. Plucking a third. There are four total, and then the arms are next.
Breathe, breathe. Empty the mouth of its wayward wants and the mind of its selfish desires. One who sees will see who sees, while the one who doesn’t cannot distinguish between the seeing and eye-burdened doesn’t.
Again.
One more.
Absolute stillness, absolute clarity. The fog is as clear as glass, as opaque as sand.
How lucky the jellyfish is to be composed of less than a mind, how lucky it is to possess less than understanding while fully alert—an existence both of the sky and the ground below, a coasting built upon a coast of unabashed unanimity.
How lucky the jellyfish is to know neither pain nor pleasure—and how treacherous it is that such stillness was corrupted with life, with a purpose, with a toiling existence.
Immortality in the hands of a mortal mind was less than nothing—it was a negative space. A negative number where zero was intended to cause, where zero, the center of all existence was meant to blossom.
Who could have cursed such a precious creature into such agony?
What sort of blackened heart could cast upon this nothingness such suffering?
The jellyfish had less than a mind, so it could not bear to resist temptation…
Perhaps that is why now it needs to be protected so.
…
Last of the tendrils. A slower pace, a meaningless touch.
Not even those black eyes open as that hand begins to work, as it slowly distills itself into a circular mantra, held only within her mind.
Peace, peace, she once declared, understanding the foolishness of the world. Emerging from snowy webs and gazing upon the wicked ways of the flesh.
How lucky she is to experience that which, in its totality, is as of that which was the meaningless creation of the universe.
