One Word
Once upon a time, there lived a young man - ruddy, energetic, in the full bloom of health - who set out on a journey. His quest was to the find the one word to speak the world. One word, without remainder, to speak the trees and forests, the plains and mountains, the seas and rivers. One word to speak the seasons, to encompass the mysteries of esoteric secrets, to speak the colours of love and wildness of fury. One word alone, pristine and untouched, soundless but waiting.
He travelled far and wide. He visited the sites of the holy men, daubed with the hues of heaven. He sat with the river avatars in monsoon heights. He talked long and deep into countless nights around dancing fires, listening and imbibing. He was silent in mountain caves as spiders wept silken threads and mountain goats stood imperviously by. He knelt in temples while ornate and holy books were kissed. He opened scrolls and cogitated, chewed and digested.
All the while, the chill seeped into his bones, dust storms scoured his face, and bones creaked. Time settled like a threadbare blanket. Until at last, he settled along the banks of a river, an old man whose youth had vanished. All his wordly possessions were spread out in front of him. Scroll after scroll piled chaotically, each capturing and tying to earth a word, an idea, a thought.
Beside him a cauldron suffered the licks of fiery tongues. As dusk settled and a sky shimmered with pink, almost imperceptibly, he unfurled each scroll and dipped it into the cauldron. He stewed. The papers dissolved and released their words. Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness approached, he drank deep draughts. Inhaling a lifetime of sounds, he swallowed. And gently reclined until he lay horizontal, utterly spent. There he stayed.
Until at last, a great breath inflated his lungs, his rib cage expanded and his mouth pursed. But not a word to trap the world came. Silence. Instead just a breath slowly exhaling and swirling in freedom. It grew and flew. The trees lining the river rustled green and the river itself stirred. Cubit on cubit from the east flew down the river and white water bubbled. He woke and raised his face and on his breath, a cross floated and came to rest upright, stark and bare. In silence, he knelt.
This is the word of the Lord, thanks be to God.
He travelled far and wide. He visited the sites of the holy men, daubed with the hues of heaven. He sat with the river avatars in monsoon heights. He talked long and deep into countless nights around dancing fires, listening and imbibing. He was silent in mountain caves as spiders wept silken threads and mountain goats stood imperviously by. He knelt in temples while ornate and holy books were kissed. He opened scrolls and cogitated, chewed and digested.
All the while, the chill seeped into his bones, dust storms scoured his face, and bones creaked. Time settled like a threadbare blanket. Until at last, he settled along the banks of a river, an old man whose youth had vanished. All his wordly possessions were spread out in front of him. Scroll after scroll piled chaotically, each capturing and tying to earth a word, an idea, a thought.
Beside him a cauldron suffered the licks of fiery tongues. As dusk settled and a sky shimmered with pink, almost imperceptibly, he unfurled each scroll and dipped it into the cauldron. He stewed. The papers dissolved and released their words. Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness approached, he drank deep draughts. Inhaling a lifetime of sounds, he swallowed. And gently reclined until he lay horizontal, utterly spent. There he stayed.
Until at last, a great breath inflated his lungs, his rib cage expanded and his mouth pursed. But not a word to trap the world came. Silence. Instead just a breath slowly exhaling and swirling in freedom. It grew and flew. The trees lining the river rustled green and the river itself stirred. Cubit on cubit from the east flew down the river and white water bubbled. He woke and raised his face and on his breath, a cross floated and came to rest upright, stark and bare. In silence, he knelt.
This is the word of the Lord, thanks be to God.
Blogged with Flock
posted by chris at 10:41 PM
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