To part I
I had to go down to the Spree (now the corrupted Spree to which Europe dropped an unmoral succession of shot bodies) and drink its seminal waters. I had to summon the holy Road to envisage the
straight path which runs firm through an ethereal realm. At either side of this, the mists of History were fighting its never-ending war. I crossed the sacred river where the youth sacrifices itself for glory, for the vaterland, the tzar and the emperor. I crossed it and I was still alive and I turned left and there I founded the clearing were I could lie and rest while a web was growing around me.
Meanwhile my senses had become clearer. I could already hear some of the remote, poietical chords which ruffled the reality since the beginning of time. When I opened my eyes, my eyes had become bigger. When I touched my skin, my skin could sense new shapes. And when I opened my mouth... when I opened my mouth and that
obscene bird of the night sung its dark old chants, then my tongue melted away and out my trembling lips.
The web around me had crystallized in a quite dense woodland but I could still peer into the distance and discern the shadows and lights in it. And so I set off and directed myself to the deep darkness.
Were they, the people in the woods, scared? Tired maybe, sleepy, and could not bear the sharp light my feet emanated? They receded at every step I took forth. They covered their faces with their forearms or their hands, and they seemed so nebulous notwithstanding my straight sight. They would vanish in a crackling under my steps if I came too close, and the crackling would be followed by a splintered cloud which climbed swirling, playing with the branches up the trees. Had they tried before the path I sought? And had they grown so tired, so scared? What if science also gets me trapped in a random walk? What'd be its dimension? What its substrate... what is it? Such a random walk. So random and so. Random walk.
I had to hold my self together. Literally. My legs and arms were spread all over the scene, some of my fingers detached as well. My head had landed some meters away from the trunk, touching with the nose my genitalia--deep breath, wet and sweet. So I had to stand up and pick up my parts. Stuff them in my backpack, dry and rigid as they were. And then I dropped the backpack. I was way too heavy to carry my own weight. The reality was so dense: it had to hold all the light and shadows the woods contained. Way too much. It would just break apart.
Things happen in a space we can't reach. From there, they yield to our world instances we recognize and put names to; so, many events of the history might be projections from the same underlying entity. One example would be what we named god. Once transcended, it's easy to see how some genial and powerful event took place in this hidden world; and its instances in our physical world, we called them god. This same event would take place later many times. But the word god had been mystified, amplified. It had taken rust and weight, acquired harsh layers of reality that usage had put upon. Humans couldn't recognize anymore as godly the instances yielded by the very same event. And so these, as powerful and genial as the original one, were given other names: Cervantes, Leon Tolstoi, Roberto Bolaño, Richard Feynman; blurred with time: Siddhartha, Pitagoras, Euclides... until they are so remote that they melt together in an abstract Unknown from which god drinks.
Each instance yielded to our world hasn't got the same expression as any other of the same kind. They happen at different moments and they interact with other instances (whether of the same type or different). Each one attains its own, singular realization. Some isolated ripples from different entities can interplay giving rise to phantom items that we identify as independent and that shape our world as well, although no onely transcendental event exists which would project such.
The reality we see is nothing but a light, subtle fabric which pervades everything; which has been lied over a more essential reality where more essential events take place. And it's their realizations in our world that we can sense and name. We are threads which move freely in this fiber and cross it with the hope of finding something at the other side; but it's the same old fabric we perceive, no matter the dimension we've chosen to traverse it across.
It's so that it emerges the goddess of History: the eternal tailor. Our free will as a naive struggle against her firm and expert hands. We play childishly; but when the moment arrives, she pulls our threads and the fabric gets wrinkled. And so the rugged and ramified shapes our lives take, and so the universe complete collapses into a moment which joins the tension points that our stitches made.
We are the projection of a standard event from this hidden realm. This standard event yields a human in our physical world each time it takes place, and this event is always one and the same. It was this same event which yielded god. We are the closest to god it ever existed. We have our lives to reverberate, make the fabric shiver, reach with the hands and push the world. Later, later enough so we won't ever see it, the coarse-graining of generations will preserve our name or will scribble it in a huge gravestone the size of the earth; so humanity can regret-less forget us, melt all of us together so the gods get fed, so the gods moved the world.
To part III
