The Celebration

For once again am I standing on the crossroad of the time. Upon the left lies the past of journeys and meditation; by the right presents the farther past, bygones covered by the search of lights and dreams. A crossroad so occupied by those cars – a transience, stabbing light, deafening horns, monstrous engines. Those were what drove the cars so fast, as trails and dusts. Ah, those cars move from the right to the left, from the bygone to the forthcoming, so does a stream of water – they never stop. Yet the flowing of streams is the cleaning-away of soil and filth. Filth of mud shall never contaminate the purity of the water, so let it be carried onward into the deep ocean, where thousand years of time will be left for its purification. Yet the flowing of streams is the forgetting of the past: let it be flushed by the running water; let it fade out of my sight.

A stream of water is what directs the sailboat, as if I am the boater who stands upon, by the mean time observe what passes by. I see the great sights: the endless path upon which lies the witness of the sunrise, storm cloud beneath which the soulless one once grieved, and the road of the night walk where contains the pureness that glows golden. But have I even decided the path to take, for that the stream is a direction but more a restriction? Indeed, has the boater been holding the control, yet to where is he able to sail other than the channel where water presents? Look ahead: channels thin as narrow, as if a passageway that fits but one person. Alas, the director of the boat heads toward nowhere but the stream points to; how, then, will I be released to explore as free?

Now am I standing upon the crossroad of time, where lies the past and the farther past. Yet another meditation where the boater mourned the narrowness of the stream. Just as the stream allows no directions other than its own, the path of mine have become more or less predestined. But even if I am confined in the narrow channel, sights from afar are well observed: the endless road, the nebula, and the storm. These were not as old nor as memorable. An escape from the present, shall I dive into the farther past in search for the answer of my path. Sealed deep within my memory is the torchlight of the Celebration: a passing of darkness and night.

An image constructed much before the loss of my consciousness, the Celebration shone as bright by the night. By the road under the hidden valley comes the night that bears no end. Above the coast of the stilled ocean extends the firmament of lime and gray. Surrounded by the mountains, standing amidst the oceans lies the end of the hidden road, at which none is witnessed but the brilliant orb of the torchlight – here lies the Celebration. Warmth under the coldest winter, brightness from the darkest night; I was once a visitor of the tower, a witness of the ascension. More than delightfulness, a stage of ecstasy I experienced. But how should the answer lie within, for that the Celebration was no more than a craft of my mind?

The Celebration of warmth, for it protects those tortured souls from suffering under the freezing winds. A shelter, that is; a shield that prevents one from stepping into the dark. How reckless once I was, for that it was I who stepped into the endless dream. As if the demon within my heart was unleashed, I became tortured for once and over, suffering from the agony of pain. Yet did I forget the existence of the great torchlight that bounds the fallacies outside of my mind. With the journey ever be continued, I will rely it upon. Thus a lesson is learned.

The tower of brilliance, the beacon of direction. Should the lost one forget his way back, the Celebration will clear his path, a path formed by light. Hence no obstacles dare impede his way, as they will be obliterated by the pureness of the light. Will I, then, take the advice of the tower, as the direction always matters in my way to the beyond. But the direction does not imply any restriction, since it would otherwise form the narrow channel that blocks the way. Much has the recollection of the Celebration reminded me of its way, and thus a lesson is learned.

Either the Celebration or the journeys that follow, they shall belong to the tales of mind. And now I stand upon the crossroad of time, the intersection of the past and the forthcoming. But neither of the two paths will I choose to take, and thus will the decision be held on my own. I am the wanderer; I am the sailor. The sailboat is yet pushed by the water, but for this time on a vast ocean, where bears the openness of meditation.

I have been travelling for a year – a moment to be celebrated, a question addressed. Hence let the journey be continued, just as it once has been. And let me speak to the ocean and the firmament; they are the paths toward the aspiration.