Shanti Chapter IV ~ The Collapse of United States of America
Parsifal and the Philosopher in the Year 2034
Now We Are All Ghosts) Last revision on Oct. 10, 2020
Before reaching the banks of the Hudson River, Parsifal relates how the United States of America, like the Roman Empire, came to disheartening end, and how the scattered stones and haunting ghosts share a common fate with the wailing winds of history.
The Philosopher let out some tears at such awful reality, and cannot believe how history was irrevocable in recurrent tragedies for humanity.
More on the mystery of evil, the Mark of the Beast, 666, and where is Shanti?
Squirrel-Parsifal:
"The time is at hand to sound the hollow heart its fortitude. Come nigh so ye don't get lost in crooked ways of delusion and skepticism, for, down this Woody Hill, there are many zig-zag precipices, erroneous labyrinths, tobogganing pathways that could send a careless soul swirling headlong to destruction.
Across this gnarled tree, there are the hard boulders and rough cliffs' ribs, the downward ways that could make any soul shudder with fright.
If we don't drop off either by a pitching budge, the many erroneous steps on these cruel slabs' faults and beetling brinks, or that cruel protuberance of a stumbling stone athwart our track, then we should be able to meet the staid Scribes of Millennia.
Temper thy guts to confront the Sentinels of Yesteryears, hapless souls whose disfigured visages, however eroded by the merciless blasts of time's wrath, may bear witness to posterity; albeit aghast and silent, they forever sealed the history of thy past generation: the mad History of Homo Sapiens."
Philosopher:
"Speak clearly to me. Your words are a puzzle.
Why so anachronistically?
What time are we now?"
Parsifal:
"Believe it or not, ye just entered the threshold of a twilight.
It is now Wednesday, October 13 in the year 2034 A.D. Many things are long past, and many others are made new under the moon's haggard brow.
Why speak so laconically clear on Homo sapiens' sad chronicles?"
Philosopher: (frowning dubious)
"Are you saying it is now a thousand years later from Shanti’s woody chronological standpoint, that is to say, it is now the year 2034 in the latter days of history.
O my goodness! This has to be a fantasy, a dream. Have I eyes?
This cannot be true.
What happened to the destiny of those seven billion souls?"
Parsifal:
"Take heart and be strong, because ye will hear and see the other pallid shades whimpering and weeping, ranging back and forth the wastelands of New York City, Manhattan.
Now some human feelings remain aloof, diffident, timorous to those who may dare fetch them near.
By the banks of the Hudson River, there are the other wordless stories that beg attentive ears, nay, an iron-fortitude to embolden the human heart undismayed.
Now some ghosts, former citizens, are hovering, sauntering and perambulating, to and fro, the accursed Isle Manhattan. Unfriendly, like night-roaming leopards or hyenas, these souls are said to be trapped in the Nest of Time.
Sometimes they would stay their feet briefly, to lap the sour water of the filthy river. When some one is nearby, the beasts, would turn around to observe the wayfarer while contorting their grim visage; but soon they would retreat backward, receding like a mist to yonder spot; and from there, they would stick out their tongues to lick their muzzles.
If we win their trust, some ghosts would trail in light steps the muggy ground of Human Ingratitude, to interchange a silent conversation --the steady stare could melt even the gut of Achilles.
Approach them not so substantial, because resisting, they had already been scorched by the fires from heaven.
Ye would not negate these hellish truths, however terrible, creeping and clutching the slimy cliffs from the precipitous navel of the Pit of Hell. For, only the warty cocky head of Satan would convince them otherwise, to cease drinking the Sour Water of Ingratitude, but only for this bargain: the other swaps of suffering, pains and ennui.
Do not dare touch their chink-features, nor keep thy sight too steady in their worm-cankered orifices; nor quickly erase in thy mind those lying lips twisting in distorted odious faces, because ye will never efface, nor limn, however describing or recollecting, the grotesque grimace of those invincible foes at hatred with themselves.
---Are they the ugly indescribable expression of time?
Like ghosts, or insensitive rocks discarded by an unknown architect, they haunt the threshold of thy sad history.
By the drafty ford of the stygian river, we will find them roaming, strolling, shuffling and dragging their clumsy gait towards the rough Pavement of Insensitivity, thy once beloved city, beautiful gem, which now is but wreckage, wracks and ruins helter skelter.
Side By Side With the Brutes: Homo Sapiens!
(Brief History of Homo Sapiens) by the Phoenix Bird:
In every noble endeavor, humans could not find peace (Shanti) among themselves, the equation of survival far exceeded their capacity to coping humanely with an ever-increasing population; perhaps the she-mist, or the he-wolf, was a grievous truth at the end of a starless day's predicament!
The narrow slab was their growing unbelief in that nonsense jig and plain ugly truth: the meaninglessness of an existence in thousands of years of wars, trepidation and destruction, or the lack of confidence in human capacity to finding an answer-solution, a final resolution to a jarring, dissonant chord in the core of Mother Nature, a looming discord in the noble pavilion of science and the high goals of humanity.
Hence a potential chit or a she-cheat was suspected in the intrinsic fundamentals of human dignity; the question of man and his internal fabric were placed, side by side, on equal standing with any other brute; whether he or she be a reptile, or a mammal, or a rat, odious vermin, or an insect, had all the scientific fancy to explaining the mystery of good and evil (utilitarianism), as no other riddle than the mere survival of biological dynamics in the struggle of existence --the survival of the fittest.
On The Dignity of My Fellow-Creatures
Hence, beyond the ethical systems of humans, other biological dynamics struck a far greater answer-yes than the noblest ideas of mankind in search for a silent God; the Lynx-tailed link between man and the beast, despite obvious differences, had the secret nudging and sympathy of many a priest and scientist; consequently, the arching heaven denied any contact with these recalcitrant creatures called Homo sapiens.
These little gods of stardom benighted, would fling their meatballs even unto the moon, in great defiance boasting above any other species: they ---mankind’s hubris, themselves but supreme, always puffing up in self-aggrandizement while mocking the gods of yore.
O my friend! How these constant truces and endless summits failed by the trapped door of a sudden intruder, a sharp dagger was always dripping blood in the neighbor's hand; thus, soon humanity shook the firmaments with appalling commotions, and the scandals could reach far off, even unto the very gold-gilded temple of Zeus, that polygamous god par excellence.
In this manner, assuming themselves no-where wayfarers, thy mad generation chose silly tangibility with some curious things nigh at hand (anima mobile, a.k.a., an iPhone), the false simulacrum of dreams (the virtual reality), the embodiment of transient forms in ending transformations and transmutations, the myriad things ever-changing in rapid-heaving cumulations: all this in more-repletion, all that in more-completion, had all the world leaders at a loss, for they could neither please, nor employ the big throngs of people toeing lines for some menial jobs, the recalcitrant crowds of unemployment ever increasing in numbers, rioters and looters, indeed, going amok and berserk to chew the cud of nothingness.
Crisis In Any Belief System
Many skeptical people could not dive beyond the quagmire of their indolent wiring muck, little by little, forsaking the sweet rosy cheeks of heavenly rainbow's rings.
Other resilient skeptics, displaying greater fortitude, against the cranking machine, resolved dwelling amidst swamps, moraine, fetid moats, their feet smearing in mud and bog hither and thither; and yawning caves that sink lower and lower into gulfs insatiable, could have wolfed every soul whole, had not some people be saved by an Unknown Providence; therein, few incredulous souls escaped the hungry maw of Nihilo --the King Ravenous (Nothingness).
Other straggled souls, sat themselves alone in the deserted grounds of Despair and Hope, where nipping winds, like bitter fleas that snip the skins naked and itching, so the raging gales tormented the hapless rabbles day and night.
Soon they would cry out in raspy voices to the sky lamenting, procuring armistice and submission to Lilith the vile hag, seditious, insidious, grim.
The cruel lady would then twirl her golden tresses round her helpless lovers --bewitched! For learn this mystery of mysteries, that almost every bosom surrendered their precious sense of being to her: to non-being but in a shadowy existence, a huge file of miserable souls marched macabre, penitent, stamping hooves in great din and peals of horrors inexplicable; and some hard hooves stamped the hollow earth so terribly bounding and banging, which even unto the farthermost places, everything shook in hellish terror and commotion.
Yea, thy mad generation was not so free as they believed themselves to be.
The Intelligence of Evil or Lucidity Pact) in memory of Jean Baudrillard:
(silence)
In this manner, the intelligent bipeds started doubting and squeaking on what was real, hence, what was unreal and wrong in their silly little screen of ghosts?
The delusion was wide spread, more and more, turning every thing and every-one into a mere guess-play of speculation; for, even the world-leaders raved and raged in the unreliability of their concrete methods --striking unison with the All-For-All grand masse of Jose Ortega y Gasset in an on-lined matrix: terrible beasts enchained for fury alone, and ripe for a total alienation.
These what-rabbles were intent on tearing apart the flesh and bones of some invisible oppressor.
And where was he?"
Philosopher: "Who?"
Parsifal: "The Beast, Homo Hominis Lupus."
Distrust increased, din and feud alike between man and woman tolled high, and broke apart the familiar ceiling of homely nuptial love; for, due to a new type of social depression and consternation --unparalleled in the annals of Homo sapiens ( The Social Contract of Jean Jacques Rousseau) -- few people would dare risk their tiny fingers in silly solidarity; the fire's tongues burned high to scorch the hybrids' buttocks, and they were ready to consume the putrid guts of thy society; verily, with little mercy, the flying flickers tapered long, quickly sieging and charring alike entrails and bowels of any living things that ever walked, crawled or crept the surface of the earth (a nuclear bomb?).
Henceforth, all these miserable people, now to ghosts transformed, are stung by errant winds, roaring and bemoaning in this cold plain of solemnest retrospection.
Hither and thither, they flit like drones or flies, buzzing and wheeling around some nauseous valleys of human morgue and carcasses, the putrefaction of history in endless knobs of torn torses, cadavers and endless mounts of skulls helter skelter, now staidly grinning at some colossal farce in The Question of Suffering.
Hold on, ye will see them hence, like stray dogs, sometimes wagging their tails, sometimes yapping and panting to some stand-by stranger-friend: O thee! the sole foreign friend who would like to beckon the peace-token of truce, but in vain, because these stealthy shades, in their dim visage, could not, but make up the remembrance of an evil generation in thy semblance; for, like shadows or gad-flies that fleet aloof to and fro, avoiding any way straight in the valley of dry bones, in like similitude these ghosts would fear and loathe human presence; they smack of death or cheat, or perhaps, they resemble big columns of debris wafting in the drab-colored clouds of futurity (Mind You The World Trade Center Attack, September 11th of 2001)).
And now and everywhere, the unfortunate ghosts constantly rummage, pry and snoop some piled-up junks of civilization, some trash and rusty chunks of human follies buried in that book-floor of yesterday.
The History of Homo sapiens is but a colossal tome of incomprehensibility, the hard- to-match chronicles of thousands of years of wars, consternation, trepidation.
Per-haps therein, my dear friend, some genuine thing is to be found. At pace with their unresolved passions wanton, these ghastly entities have no need for more hope and technology, but to dash their fate in the indelible characters of grotesque rocks and stones, to speak clearly and yet feebly to posterity, the unpalatable history of Homo sapiens.
(Reverential Silence)
This is the timeless-hour whence perhaps a nearby Specter-Gargoyle --leering at the hard blows of human indifference -- may wish a draft-man fearless a rendezvous, with wide-eyed gaze to stand in his hind hooves, heroic, intrepid --to speak out, to decry aloud the other sad story of the human heart.
Meanwhile, the other Silent Effigy just looks on, unmoved, unperturbed in that steady stare, piercing deeply, penetrating, enigmatic, perhaps loosing the limbs of any mortal, a lonely soul whom would dare walk this wide road of perdition: it is a disheartening desert stretching far and far unto to those looming forms bare, gruesome waste; and yet, a quiet world now chiseled by endless uneven lines of scarps, steepy hillocks and screes many that obey not the rules of art or understanding.
--Where is the Sphinx of Mankind?
Look! Look! Look at down there, in the shadow of that tree's lee.
Can ye see the scattered shards of some unknown artist?
Perhaps this is the discarded clay of a great potter; or perhaps, it is the shattered remnants of a great utopia-builder."
Philosopher: (let out of a few tears for the History of Homo Sapiens)
"Are these the sad stones of pains you have brought me to weep?
Scattered stones of Human Endeavors, Ingratitude and Indifference, the many souls left behind in oblivion?
In the first place, why such sentry-stones were given a heart?
Bear in mind, that I am more afraid of the human heart than the gloom of a night-walk with a mummy or specter.
But where are the ghosts?"
Parsifal: (far-gazing unto the lowlands of sweet Manhattan)
"If you would like to see the sweet lady Shanti someday, then be bold, and hold thyself fearless, because the ever-rolling track is no-way smooth; in fact, it it is rutted and marked in a halting tempo of cracks and spoors, the hideous signs of the beasts (666) still prowling all over the desert; for us two my friend, there is a long pilgrimage amidst many a sad moods of stumbling blocks and alas --and sighs...
The Question of Life cannot just be crammed into thy moldy shelves of insipid doctrines. I, more than once, have been puzzled by the Profundity of the Human Heart and Ghostly Apparitions, because many a night-walk was shrouded in sober clouds of daunting thoughts, questions, dread.
The Solitary Path, not always yielded a propitious footing to my well-being. Alas, my poor soul cried out unto heaven: where is the snug hut for me?
Where is my home?
Sometimes, the Question of Existence, certainly, borders and blurs into the Realm of Pre-fixed Feelings and Pre-monitions --Pre-Sence.
It is the realm of our being, lived in that non-spatial reality of other pre-sent moments, whereat our auto-biography may seem to convey greater meanings, the personal significance of that enormous mansion forlorn --perhaps it is a beautiful church abandoned in a ghetto: or, our many memories and souvenirs still cherished in the inside of our spacious habitation.
The spacious place is not wanting in burning ashes, nor in embers and sparks many to rekindle anew the warm blood of the spirit.
The panic could be greater when there is no set fringe to our mental penumbras, nor there are fixed margins for this world and the other; nor we possess a rod-gauge, long enough to plumb the profoundest palpitations in the human heart's depth: the hitherto unexplored dread of our short, and yet long journey through this mysterious existence; for, even unto the unknown, the *mine being in the human heart,* may wish to beat, throb and swell and sprain the unfathomable forces of love and hatred... "
To be continued (wait for Chapter V)
Now We Are All Ghosts) Last revision on Oct. 10, 2020
Before reaching the banks of the Hudson River, Parsifal relates how the United States of America, like the Roman Empire, came to disheartening end, and how the scattered stones and haunting ghosts share a common fate with the wailing winds of history.
The Philosopher let out some tears at such awful reality, and cannot believe how history was irrevocable in recurrent tragedies for humanity.
More on the mystery of evil, the Mark of the Beast, 666, and where is Shanti?
Squirrel-Parsifal:
"The time is at hand to sound the hollow heart its fortitude. Come nigh so ye don't get lost in crooked ways of delusion and skepticism, for, down this Woody Hill, there are many zig-zag precipices, erroneous labyrinths, tobogganing pathways that could send a careless soul swirling headlong to destruction.
Across this gnarled tree, there are the hard boulders and rough cliffs' ribs, the downward ways that could make any soul shudder with fright.
If we don't drop off either by a pitching budge, the many erroneous steps on these cruel slabs' faults and beetling brinks, or that cruel protuberance of a stumbling stone athwart our track, then we should be able to meet the staid Scribes of Millennia.
Temper thy guts to confront the Sentinels of Yesteryears, hapless souls whose disfigured visages, however eroded by the merciless blasts of time's wrath, may bear witness to posterity; albeit aghast and silent, they forever sealed the history of thy past generation: the mad History of Homo Sapiens."
Philosopher:
"Speak clearly to me. Your words are a puzzle.
Why so anachronistically?
What time are we now?"
Parsifal:
"Believe it or not, ye just entered the threshold of a twilight.
It is now Wednesday, October 13 in the year 2034 A.D. Many things are long past, and many others are made new under the moon's haggard brow.
Why speak so laconically clear on Homo sapiens' sad chronicles?"
Philosopher: (frowning dubious)
"Are you saying it is now a thousand years later from Shanti’s woody chronological standpoint, that is to say, it is now the year 2034 in the latter days of history.
O my goodness! This has to be a fantasy, a dream. Have I eyes?
This cannot be true.
What happened to the destiny of those seven billion souls?"
Parsifal:
"Take heart and be strong, because ye will hear and see the other pallid shades whimpering and weeping, ranging back and forth the wastelands of New York City, Manhattan.
Now some human feelings remain aloof, diffident, timorous to those who may dare fetch them near.
By the banks of the Hudson River, there are the other wordless stories that beg attentive ears, nay, an iron-fortitude to embolden the human heart undismayed.
Now some ghosts, former citizens, are hovering, sauntering and perambulating, to and fro, the accursed Isle Manhattan. Unfriendly, like night-roaming leopards or hyenas, these souls are said to be trapped in the Nest of Time.
Sometimes they would stay their feet briefly, to lap the sour water of the filthy river. When some one is nearby, the beasts, would turn around to observe the wayfarer while contorting their grim visage; but soon they would retreat backward, receding like a mist to yonder spot; and from there, they would stick out their tongues to lick their muzzles.
If we win their trust, some ghosts would trail in light steps the muggy ground of Human Ingratitude, to interchange a silent conversation --the steady stare could melt even the gut of Achilles.
Approach them not so substantial, because resisting, they had already been scorched by the fires from heaven.
Ye would not negate these hellish truths, however terrible, creeping and clutching the slimy cliffs from the precipitous navel of the Pit of Hell. For, only the warty cocky head of Satan would convince them otherwise, to cease drinking the Sour Water of Ingratitude, but only for this bargain: the other swaps of suffering, pains and ennui.
Do not dare touch their chink-features, nor keep thy sight too steady in their worm-cankered orifices; nor quickly erase in thy mind those lying lips twisting in distorted odious faces, because ye will never efface, nor limn, however describing or recollecting, the grotesque grimace of those invincible foes at hatred with themselves.
---Are they the ugly indescribable expression of time?
Like ghosts, or insensitive rocks discarded by an unknown architect, they haunt the threshold of thy sad history.
By the drafty ford of the stygian river, we will find them roaming, strolling, shuffling and dragging their clumsy gait towards the rough Pavement of Insensitivity, thy once beloved city, beautiful gem, which now is but wreckage, wracks and ruins helter skelter.
Side By Side With the Brutes: Homo Sapiens!
(Brief History of Homo Sapiens) by the Phoenix Bird:
In every noble endeavor, humans could not find peace (Shanti) among themselves, the equation of survival far exceeded their capacity to coping humanely with an ever-increasing population; perhaps the she-mist, or the he-wolf, was a grievous truth at the end of a starless day's predicament!
The narrow slab was their growing unbelief in that nonsense jig and plain ugly truth: the meaninglessness of an existence in thousands of years of wars, trepidation and destruction, or the lack of confidence in human capacity to finding an answer-solution, a final resolution to a jarring, dissonant chord in the core of Mother Nature, a looming discord in the noble pavilion of science and the high goals of humanity.
Hence a potential chit or a she-cheat was suspected in the intrinsic fundamentals of human dignity; the question of man and his internal fabric were placed, side by side, on equal standing with any other brute; whether he or she be a reptile, or a mammal, or a rat, odious vermin, or an insect, had all the scientific fancy to explaining the mystery of good and evil (utilitarianism), as no other riddle than the mere survival of biological dynamics in the struggle of existence --the survival of the fittest.
On The Dignity of My Fellow-Creatures
Hence, beyond the ethical systems of humans, other biological dynamics struck a far greater answer-yes than the noblest ideas of mankind in search for a silent God; the Lynx-tailed link between man and the beast, despite obvious differences, had the secret nudging and sympathy of many a priest and scientist; consequently, the arching heaven denied any contact with these recalcitrant creatures called Homo sapiens.
These little gods of stardom benighted, would fling their meatballs even unto the moon, in great defiance boasting above any other species: they ---mankind’s hubris, themselves but supreme, always puffing up in self-aggrandizement while mocking the gods of yore.
O my friend! How these constant truces and endless summits failed by the trapped door of a sudden intruder, a sharp dagger was always dripping blood in the neighbor's hand; thus, soon humanity shook the firmaments with appalling commotions, and the scandals could reach far off, even unto the very gold-gilded temple of Zeus, that polygamous god par excellence.
In this manner, assuming themselves no-where wayfarers, thy mad generation chose silly tangibility with some curious things nigh at hand (anima mobile, a.k.a., an iPhone), the false simulacrum of dreams (the virtual reality), the embodiment of transient forms in ending transformations and transmutations, the myriad things ever-changing in rapid-heaving cumulations: all this in more-repletion, all that in more-completion, had all the world leaders at a loss, for they could neither please, nor employ the big throngs of people toeing lines for some menial jobs, the recalcitrant crowds of unemployment ever increasing in numbers, rioters and looters, indeed, going amok and berserk to chew the cud of nothingness.
Crisis In Any Belief System
Many skeptical people could not dive beyond the quagmire of their indolent wiring muck, little by little, forsaking the sweet rosy cheeks of heavenly rainbow's rings.
Other resilient skeptics, displaying greater fortitude, against the cranking machine, resolved dwelling amidst swamps, moraine, fetid moats, their feet smearing in mud and bog hither and thither; and yawning caves that sink lower and lower into gulfs insatiable, could have wolfed every soul whole, had not some people be saved by an Unknown Providence; therein, few incredulous souls escaped the hungry maw of Nihilo --the King Ravenous (Nothingness).
Other straggled souls, sat themselves alone in the deserted grounds of Despair and Hope, where nipping winds, like bitter fleas that snip the skins naked and itching, so the raging gales tormented the hapless rabbles day and night.
Soon they would cry out in raspy voices to the sky lamenting, procuring armistice and submission to Lilith the vile hag, seditious, insidious, grim.
The cruel lady would then twirl her golden tresses round her helpless lovers --bewitched! For learn this mystery of mysteries, that almost every bosom surrendered their precious sense of being to her: to non-being but in a shadowy existence, a huge file of miserable souls marched macabre, penitent, stamping hooves in great din and peals of horrors inexplicable; and some hard hooves stamped the hollow earth so terribly bounding and banging, which even unto the farthermost places, everything shook in hellish terror and commotion.
Yea, thy mad generation was not so free as they believed themselves to be.
The Intelligence of Evil or Lucidity Pact) in memory of Jean Baudrillard:
(silence)
In this manner, the intelligent bipeds started doubting and squeaking on what was real, hence, what was unreal and wrong in their silly little screen of ghosts?
The delusion was wide spread, more and more, turning every thing and every-one into a mere guess-play of speculation; for, even the world-leaders raved and raged in the unreliability of their concrete methods --striking unison with the All-For-All grand masse of Jose Ortega y Gasset in an on-lined matrix: terrible beasts enchained for fury alone, and ripe for a total alienation.
These what-rabbles were intent on tearing apart the flesh and bones of some invisible oppressor.
And where was he?"
Philosopher: "Who?"
Parsifal: "The Beast, Homo Hominis Lupus."
Distrust increased, din and feud alike between man and woman tolled high, and broke apart the familiar ceiling of homely nuptial love; for, due to a new type of social depression and consternation --unparalleled in the annals of Homo sapiens ( The Social Contract of Jean Jacques Rousseau) -- few people would dare risk their tiny fingers in silly solidarity; the fire's tongues burned high to scorch the hybrids' buttocks, and they were ready to consume the putrid guts of thy society; verily, with little mercy, the flying flickers tapered long, quickly sieging and charring alike entrails and bowels of any living things that ever walked, crawled or crept the surface of the earth (a nuclear bomb?).
Henceforth, all these miserable people, now to ghosts transformed, are stung by errant winds, roaring and bemoaning in this cold plain of solemnest retrospection.
Hither and thither, they flit like drones or flies, buzzing and wheeling around some nauseous valleys of human morgue and carcasses, the putrefaction of history in endless knobs of torn torses, cadavers and endless mounts of skulls helter skelter, now staidly grinning at some colossal farce in The Question of Suffering.
Hold on, ye will see them hence, like stray dogs, sometimes wagging their tails, sometimes yapping and panting to some stand-by stranger-friend: O thee! the sole foreign friend who would like to beckon the peace-token of truce, but in vain, because these stealthy shades, in their dim visage, could not, but make up the remembrance of an evil generation in thy semblance; for, like shadows or gad-flies that fleet aloof to and fro, avoiding any way straight in the valley of dry bones, in like similitude these ghosts would fear and loathe human presence; they smack of death or cheat, or perhaps, they resemble big columns of debris wafting in the drab-colored clouds of futurity (Mind You The World Trade Center Attack, September 11th of 2001)).
And now and everywhere, the unfortunate ghosts constantly rummage, pry and snoop some piled-up junks of civilization, some trash and rusty chunks of human follies buried in that book-floor of yesterday.
The History of Homo sapiens is but a colossal tome of incomprehensibility, the hard- to-match chronicles of thousands of years of wars, consternation, trepidation.
Per-haps therein, my dear friend, some genuine thing is to be found. At pace with their unresolved passions wanton, these ghastly entities have no need for more hope and technology, but to dash their fate in the indelible characters of grotesque rocks and stones, to speak clearly and yet feebly to posterity, the unpalatable history of Homo sapiens.
(Reverential Silence)
This is the timeless-hour whence perhaps a nearby Specter-Gargoyle --leering at the hard blows of human indifference -- may wish a draft-man fearless a rendezvous, with wide-eyed gaze to stand in his hind hooves, heroic, intrepid --to speak out, to decry aloud the other sad story of the human heart.
Meanwhile, the other Silent Effigy just looks on, unmoved, unperturbed in that steady stare, piercing deeply, penetrating, enigmatic, perhaps loosing the limbs of any mortal, a lonely soul whom would dare walk this wide road of perdition: it is a disheartening desert stretching far and far unto to those looming forms bare, gruesome waste; and yet, a quiet world now chiseled by endless uneven lines of scarps, steepy hillocks and screes many that obey not the rules of art or understanding.
--Where is the Sphinx of Mankind?
Look! Look! Look at down there, in the shadow of that tree's lee.
Can ye see the scattered shards of some unknown artist?
Perhaps this is the discarded clay of a great potter; or perhaps, it is the shattered remnants of a great utopia-builder."
Philosopher: (let out of a few tears for the History of Homo Sapiens)
"Are these the sad stones of pains you have brought me to weep?
Scattered stones of Human Endeavors, Ingratitude and Indifference, the many souls left behind in oblivion?
In the first place, why such sentry-stones were given a heart?
Bear in mind, that I am more afraid of the human heart than the gloom of a night-walk with a mummy or specter.
But where are the ghosts?"
Parsifal: (far-gazing unto the lowlands of sweet Manhattan)
"If you would like to see the sweet lady Shanti someday, then be bold, and hold thyself fearless, because the ever-rolling track is no-way smooth; in fact, it it is rutted and marked in a halting tempo of cracks and spoors, the hideous signs of the beasts (666) still prowling all over the desert; for us two my friend, there is a long pilgrimage amidst many a sad moods of stumbling blocks and alas --and sighs...
The Question of Life cannot just be crammed into thy moldy shelves of insipid doctrines. I, more than once, have been puzzled by the Profundity of the Human Heart and Ghostly Apparitions, because many a night-walk was shrouded in sober clouds of daunting thoughts, questions, dread.
The Solitary Path, not always yielded a propitious footing to my well-being. Alas, my poor soul cried out unto heaven: where is the snug hut for me?
Where is my home?
Sometimes, the Question of Existence, certainly, borders and blurs into the Realm of Pre-fixed Feelings and Pre-monitions --Pre-Sence.
It is the realm of our being, lived in that non-spatial reality of other pre-sent moments, whereat our auto-biography may seem to convey greater meanings, the personal significance of that enormous mansion forlorn --perhaps it is a beautiful church abandoned in a ghetto: or, our many memories and souvenirs still cherished in the inside of our spacious habitation.
The spacious place is not wanting in burning ashes, nor in embers and sparks many to rekindle anew the warm blood of the spirit.
The panic could be greater when there is no set fringe to our mental penumbras, nor there are fixed margins for this world and the other; nor we possess a rod-gauge, long enough to plumb the profoundest palpitations in the human heart's depth: the hitherto unexplored dread of our short, and yet long journey through this mysterious existence; for, even unto the unknown, the *mine being in the human heart,* may wish to beat, throb and swell and sprain the unfathomable forces of love and hatred... "
To be continued (wait for Chapter V)