Hollowed, Hallowed

1953.

Mountain’s Hollow

Under the pale sky comes a gaze of cold wind whispering through withered branches, shaking off leaves that bear a blighted yellow tint. Aimless, those leaves fly with ruthless winds, so that whatever it sees or hears will be listened and written. Behold, the leaves traverses through a hollowed opening amidst a great mountain’s ridge. The hole stays as calm and unmoving, yet from it the leaves observe an ever-changing view – indeed, colors in thousands are found in shapeless patterns, and from it the leaves find islands in an ocean. The opening is shaped in a perfect circle, and light that sheds on its walls is reflected to golden. How has it been so finely carved, in that its wall is of uniformed tint, and the circular shape is never deformed from the weathering of time.

But what is told from such a hole? A hole carved out from artisan’s hands, whose craft has outperformed any of nature’s magic; as among all other statues and constructions, it stays forever as a monument to be revered. Monuments, messengers who evoke a particular feeling to anyone who observes with attention – or magnifying glasses that strengthens the emotion bond lying deep within one’s heart. They are built to be great and magnificent, so that its sheer size shall petrify whoever dares to confront it at its bottom, so that their instinct will drive them to bow – mentally, even physically – in front of the great statue.

Aye, the leaves have witnessed its greatness of supremacy: what they saw before were no more than brownish branches, flowers that wither, whitish frosts of a lifeless glow; pale skies cry down ash-like snowflakes, frozen tears of a frozen time, flying as still, creaking as silent. And leaves, tiny, forgettable; they never had a chance to find the simplest meanings that signifies their living. Their bodies were so tortured, their spirits so disdained… The mountain’s hollow focuses on the sun, of heat and of hopes; so that the leaves embrace the opening, along with all the magnificence that lies ahead, because at this moment they are set free, their soul redeemed.

The Book of Suns and Moons

Time clicks on a stone-carving clock, a clock that records every moment of one’s experience, memory, life – life, so unpredictable, so uncertain. One lives through constant changes, but over the vast changes one learns to adapt and to maintain. They begin to accept the things they have and anticipate those they don’t possess. And from days to months, from an instant joy to a lingered feeling, they gradually experience a state of constancy, of unchanging, much to their unawareness. It becomes only after such an immersive cognition that leaves them to be amazed in a predestined revelation – from unknowing to knowing. The days, weeks, months; they become a perpetual remembrance that will never be forsaken, for that a fragment of moments will absorb one in rejoicing of their past. But this is where unveils a tragedy of irony: tastes of memories are never reproduced, however one strives or searches for it; where there once was bitter, where there once lay sweetness, even the craftsman of the finest techniques cannot replicate that flavor. Ah, time clicks on the clock carved on a stone. A stone is hard and resistible to tolerate the weathering of years and decades. So that time engraves its witnesses of joy and sadness, cheerfulness and depression, upon the rock’s face, side, and bottom. And the stone, with its so many sides, faces, respects, becomes a glorious and unique story, a thousand-paged book, an hour-long documentary, forever written and kept.

Man is born to live in worlds to two: the one as luminant as the sun, emitting torchlight that brightens the world for thousands and more; the other falls serene as the moon, which shines as brook’s water, pure as cloth, casting on the night’s road for the sole walker to please. Often would he stay as the shining figure of the sun, whose warmth reaches the heart of many others. Yet when the glorious fame lurks behind the true expressions of his inners, the moon rises, and the moon glows within his own. Ah, time carves his experiences into a gray rock – a book, a film, a tale to be told. Hence the book is known by the name of suns and moons, as it reads in the duality of mind. Friend, beware to see through the books of the others, as it may read in the brightness of suns, yet can be viewed from a different angle, as a book filled with chapters is at the same time hollowed inside.

The Valley and the Seasons

No one dares to walk through the valley of death, much to the fear of rumors long existed. It has been said that the valley blows the coldest wind, of which a single contact should freeze one in horror. And the valley grows vines of thorns, so that whoever dares to enter will find no path to travel through. The valley is the residence of many terrifying creatures who takes the innocents’ souls in moment of scaring out. Beware of the gigantic bats, whose wings shall cover the sky in darkness and blind the innocent souls’ vision; watch for the spiders of sharp fang, whose venom shall immobilize its preys and slowly digest their sanity over and across years. But if not for the tones of great saints, or perhaps the depictions of mystic tales, who would ever take in such hilarious belief? Oh, the valley has long been on this land; its creation has arrived far earlier than any of the stories or rumors. Valley of death, valley of unliving, yet its richness has raised the bats to grow wings as huge; its affluence has cultivated the spiders to produce the most poisonous venom. Should anyone of much courage step into the valley, its resources must well breed this man to become strong, wise, and knowledgeable, much enough to see through all the deceptions and mischiefs. And by this time will the man understand the valley, of its nature, its residents, and the other end after the long stretch – where the rising sun has been waiting for too long. Evolved, the man returns with a few words spoken in the deepest, most touching voice:

“I have prophesied the sunrise. You shall be grateful.”

…

Concluding the course of meditation for thirty days, the man is more than ecstatic to return to his small house of residence – having wandered so far away, far across the oceans and through the most beautiful gardens: it must be a refreshing, unforgettable journey. He has seen the everchanging of the four seasons: emerging sprouts of spring, restless heights of summer, silenced charm of autumn, and peaceful stagnation of winter. From the spring he sees a lake full of lovely creatures. Warm breeze whispers through willow branches whose sprouts are growing in light green. Upon the lake’s surface, splashes of water fly across the air as ducks dash to catch swimming fishes. Gardens are a joy of remembrance over his memories from the childhood long gone. The sweetest dreams break upon the heat point of summer vibe: gardens stay still, but the lake is refreshed with vibrance and heat. Again, as he steps by the lake’s bank, he hears geese honking, frogs croaking, and firework blasting at the midsummer night’s festive. Night falls, but the day never turns dark. Until much a sudden, as the light of firework dims, autumn arrives without anyone’s notice. And all of this sudden, the land is dyed in fiery red, golden yellow, and the air is as silent as serene. But nightfall inevitably arrives in freezing cold. So he hides in a shelter with cozy fireplace, in which his face is brightened by a tint of warming yellow – and outside the window is world covered in Christmas-white. What a lonely journey! The world is his own, and he is only who dwells in. No matter how stretched it becomes, or the creatures that surround, he is and will remain so lonely, so hollowed… It wouldn’t matter: the man is saturated inside out of his mind, and he rejoices in the journey of meditation.

Hollowed and Hallowed

Heavenly chanting travels across the holy church. A voice so pure and undisturbed, every word sang is a flow of fountain’s water that purifies dirty souls of dirty deeds. As layered as deep, yet the chanting is sounded so hollow, spreading into endless spaces, echoing through borderless walls. Only then will it be considered divine and hallowed, for its mystic nature shall baffle and astound anyone who listens, and hence would the listeners undergo a heavenly ascension through the tones of angel’s song. And the listeners travel through space and time, through the four seasons and the course of their life, to see through the hollow of their inner and hence have them understood – they are evolved.

It has been an age of turmoil that has lasted for so many years… Scars will perpetually be left on my charred skin, tormented by the flame of the war. But they are the witnesses of the crimes and sins committed by those who have started and kept it running, as the convicted ones will never bear the light of ruth or the sense of guilt to uncover the nature of such destructive act. Be the scars carved on the stone of time, so let them be written on the book of suns and moons. As of now I have found the ways of redemption, so that a brighter future from the mountain’s hollow has come clear and visible. And now the flames of the war shall diminish from this land, lest the shadow of storm clouds above corrupt for too long. And let the convicted be damned for the blessing of thousands more, so that the suffered ones will be set free. And with the chanting of the hallowed, I shall bless everyone, for that all have now been set free. Friend, look from now and farther ahead: henceforth be there no more sins that shadow or sufferings that burn; the sun is rising, so steadily, so bright.