"If tales and legends of your appearance are true, then my lord you have abandoned your children. Thy will is all I aspired to fulfill, yet feelings of despair, and abandonment fill me. What if the legends are mere conjectures; a foolish fabrication of deluded minds. In all the colossal universe, i have not seen your presence, for all i have is feelings of trance and ecstasy. In life there is no reassurance, so if i fail to grasp you in life, then all i have for now is death."
I sit there looking at what my hands have crafted. The hands designed by that of the divine. This device in front of me surely proves the lethality of the mechanism intended for holy purpose, for my hand once belonged to the higher spirit, to serve in wellbeing, and serenity. The sight of the robes and crafted wood fills me with horror, how can i a man of the holy source aspire to such act. I look at the aftermath of my monstrosity; the intricate device in front of me intended for the sole purpose of ending a life.
During the history of our people, no man pondered the thought of taking a life, not even his own. For it was known that man was a wave; life was the riser, and death was the crashing of the waves. One can never break the harmony of this divine order. You can never stop a wave at its ascent. Alas the balance is soon to be disturbed, for I will swim through the sea of the souls in search for truth. Oh it strikes me how irony plays its part, for now the sacred equilibrium will be broken by the holiest of all, by a man of the source, by a prophet!
It has been a tradition of the Kaloms for the prophet of the source to live atop the mountain of solitude. My house holds the spiritual presence of prophets long gone. The simplistic room resembling the detachment of life; the art of nature surrounding my dwelling ; the brawl of the cold wind, always filled me with a sense of oneness, and transcendental state, yet today was not a day of the divine.
I look upon the view from my window. How graceful are the colors of the setting sun, signaling the end of day. The cold blue of the sky merging with the warm colors of the dying sun. beneath the descending flaming giant, a village lies. Home to the people of Kalom, my people. The village of illdar has sat there for centuries, since the coming of the first fathers. The first prophet tells the story of the fathers in Kalom scripture. How beautiful and transcendent are the Kaloms, a product of divine trance, and human emotions.
Chapter 1, verse 54 "Wonder ye simple ones of the glory of the source, for we first reached the shores of man on the backs of the first river, and attained the revelation of the eternal spirit. It taught us the names, actions, and methods of physical life. thou foolish beings don't dwell in life, for what awaits us surpasses our mortal minds."
why has my mind caused me such doubt, why do i have to suffer the pain of detachment, for if there is a divine, then my mind is its antagonist, and If there is not, then its my only savior.
It is customary that Prophets shouldn't leave the mountain unless a revelation was emitted to them, for then and only then can they go descend and reveal what they were given. Each week two able men climb the mountain to offer food and water to the lonely prophet. The task is tedious, and full of dangers; many climbers have lost their lives performing their holy duty, yet more and more come to give away their aspiring vitality in the aid of the prophet. Tomorrow, a day of spiritual decay, I taint my purpose, breaking all the codes of gods and men.
I descend for the final time; the divine may banish me into nothingness, if that is the case then let the memories of my village be my only solace.
I remember the first time I descended the mountain. It was the beginning of spring, how beautiful were the ancient trees, how harmonic the sound of the wind, ohh I remember the spring. I remember the colors, and the delightful scents. The night of the revelation was a night I will never forget. I kept meditating on the mountain top near a cliff. I felt as if my body was part of the all; my soul extended its branches to the heart of earth, the wind embraced me as her mortal son, my eyes could see beyond the horizon of the physical world. I felt the overwhelming oneness of the universe. That day my soul was stretched wide open to receive the divine revelation.
"On this noble day, I, Aaron of Illdar, hand you the wisdom of the all. The music of the source filled my empty soul. I state my apology to you blessed people of Illdar, for my mortal mind, and our human language cannot explain what my silent, and immortal soul has heard. What I tell you now is an attempt of emission of divine will. Diligent mortals, now i speak to your souls, for they know what my words mea, yet your mortal understanding will not fathom the intensity of my prophecy.
And there i sat with my flood of feelings, and emotions, tainting me of diligent work, and obscuring my holy task. My will was not strong enough to conquer my mind, and my soul drowned in worry, and over thinking. Oh mortal body why thwart me from divinity, ohh weak soul why not prevail over my emotions. I meditated for hours, and hours, and when it seemed like my task will not be done, and hindered it seemed my spiritual channeling, i heard a tune. A tune of an instrument i have not yet heard before, nor i would hear again. The tune turned to numerous ones, and the tunes formed a beautiful symphony of music and vision. My eyes were closed, and before the music, i only saw the darkness that my eyelids sheltered, yet once the first tune played, spectrums of light and colors danced through my eyes. At first i could not fathom the immensity and beauty of light, yet it seemed my soul understood what they mean. The language of the gods they were, the symphony was the words; the spectrum was the meeting point of my soul, and the source of oneness. What my soul told me pertained to my thoughts, and emotions. How naive i was to try to prevent emotions, and conquer my thoughts, but now the secrets of the divine i hold, and they tell me of a way. A way of cleansing, and serenity. The way of the one. The music told me what I should do; that i should accept my thoughts, and emotions as parts of me, hence part of the one. That what i did of oppressing my thoughts, was me oppressing the divine. Free mortals of Illdar. Meditate, and pray in reflection of your life; the life of the universe, yet neglect the methods of emotional blockage for they are obsolete, and blasphemous. Accept your emotions. Be one with your thoughts, and you will be one with the all."
That day will remain in Kalom history for centuries to come, yet it will remain in the core of my soul for eternity. I felt the compassion, and diligence running through me. The days of contemplation, and work in search for the truth, have lead me to this. I am the spiritual guardian of my people. I am their protector from oblivion, and spiritual loss. On that day i felt that the bestowed title of prophetic, comes with fatherly feelings.
People of Illdar cheered, and celebrated. The astounding rituals of Kalom were intricate and beautiful. No one could dare sleep that day, for no one could miss such beauty. The festival was a midway between the realm of the soul, and ours. Scriptures were cited, songs were sung, and dances were performed. It was a day of communing, spirituality, and divinity.
I long for my past perception, my empty doubt, and my reassured self. I look up at the sky. It was a calm night. I go back to the place that my mind will always remember. The place of worship, and grace in where the divine reveled its thoughts to me. The stars brighten the dark sky with mesmerizing antiquity. The cool northern wind engulfs me, caressing my hands and face; i close my eyes, neglecting my mortal body, and becoming one with the all. I whisper "Dear One, are you testing my faith? Is doubt a divine instrument of yours? Speak to me, show me thy power." My head held high, I wait for a sign. "Immortal one, show me the way. For I am your prophet, and your divine nectar runs through my veins" I wait patiently, yet my patience grows weary. I cite chapters, and chapters of scripture. Tears of sorrow and pain pour down my checks. my tongue is no longer capable of citing, and my muscles ache of standing for hours and hours. I break down. My painful scream, and weep thunders throughout the valley. On all fours, and my eyes pinned to the floor, my soul is torn. "Answer me. Till what time will you cower in hiding? for how long will we suffer the pain of solitude, and anonymity. I curse the source, and all its patrons. I curse the all and the one. I curse you immortal one."
I lay on the floor. The rain melts the dirt, turning it to mud. The mud I lay with the entire night. How different are the days. How painful is the change. The first sermon of grace, and the last one of shame.
It is said that for a few moments after one wakes up, he enters a state of blessed forgetfulness, an illusory period. For a few seconds I forget about the sorrow, the solitude, and cold. Nothing unfortunately stays the same. My mind jumps into remembrance, and the events of a dreadful night linger through my thoughts. I stand up with a tired body, and a crushed spirit. Mud covers my grey robe, and the cold sprouts in my bones. The walk to the house was a tedious, and difficult one. Memories of how I felt when I first entered the house flood me. The sweet shiver running through me when my foot touched the cold ceramic of the floor; the realization that all the prophets of Kalom once called this place home filled me with a divine awe. I couldn't speak for days, for the flood of happiness was overwhelming. Random surges of weeping, and scripture humming was my only language for days and days.
Now I step in. How different is the place; how hurtful is the entering. The sun offers no solace for my grief, and the singing birds test my aching mind. The reverence of the place is null, and the awe I have to say is gone. I collapse on the side of the bed. the bed that once gave me comfort, and serenity, yet nothing can calm what overcame me now. the tears pour down my face, and my heart weeps along. I weep, not of happiness and awe as before, but of pain.
It was time for the final sermon. I wash myself, yet water cleanses not the soul. If this is my last sermon; my last communion with my people, then let them remember me for my guidance, wisdom, and sovereign spirituality. I unfold my attire; the same robe I wore on my first sermon.
The final sermon
I am of no vitality as before. The troubling descend will surely be any old prophet's demise, for that the stairway of Vular was made, named after the 13th prophet. Vular became a prophet in his old age. A man of great spirituality, yet a fragile body. The village builders made haste in building the 734 stairs path to be used only by prophets; nevertheless the descend was tedious still. I begin. The first step sent a rushing pierce through me, as if my heart beats its agonizing drums of war. With every step the beats grow higher and higher. The small houses of the village no more seem small. The houses were of different colors and masses, yet the same ornaments subside on the corners and walls of each house. As I reach near the village, I notice the differences that lay upon it. It has tremendously transformed. Paved roads, street lights, even the people look different. I began to ponder the reason of the changing scenery. Did the village where I was raised really change, or has my gloomy perception delude me into these thoughts.
A few steps remain. My hearts beats with a humongous force as I see the lights of the coming appear. The lights that signal the sighting of the prophet. I felt as if the village was a living creature that welcomes me into its very womb. The creature's parts, the people, give me the centric attention as soon as they spot the flame. The alive creature that is the city became more vibrant with my sighting. 9 more stairs remain. I hear the cheers of glorifying mouth, the ringing of golden bells, and the approaching footsteps of the peaceful horde.
One more step... yet I stop, for now there I realize that there is nothing that could be offered to the last sermon. I begin to think fast of words that could befit a prophetic sermon, but my drumming heart offers no aid in such task. The mass approaches, and fear of disappointment with them..... to be continued