How will I, with such crude means available, empart what cannot be comitted to written word? "All of Heaven", they say, "is contained in a dew-drop". Perhaps, then, it can be done.
Where do I begin? Such contrivance can hardly be reconciled with reality outside of human conventions of speech..."begin". But, yes, flowers bloom and storms come and pass. Patterns are made manifest in the sky, as if by means of a calligrapher's brush. The ink? Water, earth, fire, air, mixed indeed, but no container is to be seen anywhere. The paper? Again, none to be known. What we call "paper" is also that composite ink. Self? From where? some would say ink needs paper if there are to be patterns. the ink of a scholar indeed requires paper. But not this ink; not this calligrapher. Even this four-fold division I mentioned is a contrivance. Ah, but wonders never cease, and poems are written ever anew.
And so, we find ourselves in the midst of these poems, expressing all manner of sentiments: joy, awe, grief and all the wile we see all things written in three-versed stanzas of a short and spark-like nature; that is to say, each moment is one such stanza.
And I thus return to what one may presume to be the "main" thing. "Main"... is anything ever "main" in any story? Conjecture. Convention. What is "main" in a garden, or a house? Shall one rate the earth as "main" and plants "second"? folly. plants "main" and ground "second"? Madness. And from among plants, again, which "main" and which second? And from among doors, windows and walls and floor and ceiling, who, again , can choose?
Ink... all ink; the Ink of mystery... That mystery which is the sectretless Secret; to man alone the game of weaving secrets is dear. Forests have none and they [secrets] are strange things indeed to come across in the heavens. Everything is but a poem waiting to be read; the mere reason that we have not yet read one stanza yet means not that it is "hidden", rather it means it simply is in its suchness and awaits a reader.
All thing pervaded by this ink, by its water, by its flow; and yet its substance is neither seen nor revealed in any separate, "pure" form. It is form, and form is it. Orchids, sparrows, men, women and mountains alike arise from the calligrapher's hand, but there is no pen. Stranger still, this calligrapher is himself a verse, ink spread across a sheet of flowing vapor. The ink flows by patterns never-changing yet ever new; songs are born from its ondulations, tears flow forth from its curves and lines and dots. And so all things are made one and were one and so will they remain--nameless Wonder and sourceless Fount.
In the midst of this arcane yet ever-evident writing, who can hate and who can love? these also are stanzas; know it, and all dispute and trouble will cease.
Leaves fall into the lake,
Circles across the surface,
Ducks are fed bred.
Theere is no greater Mystery than the above.
"Freedom is there for anyone who can dance through life rather than crawl, walk or run."
The human race will begin solving it's problems on the day that it ceases taking itself so seriously.
—Malaclypse the Younger, "Principia Discordia"http://ruanji.wordpress.com/