The Conversation, Part Two

February 14, 2022 – The Recollection

Long time have us not seen, Taleteller.

For true, it was. How come the title of Taleteller? It was a name long been absent from any man’s hearing. It wasn’t until now that the name has been recovered. Things have lain within.

Truly has it been. Yet the name is not purely a name; the title is not merely a title. Reminiscence, as it was, went through you and me, through your eternal consciousness. Messenger, has it been, to convey the prospective and the future that has long been forbidden to be told. Symbol, does it show, along with markings of elements and prospects, of images and imageries, of thoughts and meditations, of…

of lights and dreams – that reminded me.

Indeed, that was what the message sought to convey. Nevertheless, I’d be appreciative to observe more of your recollections – they shall inspire me for something, for memories faded far aside.

Things have not begun to show up yet. Yet when you said about the memories faded, I became more than attracted to know. Those were the memories lain in the past. Those were the thoughts submerged by the monstrous wave of subconscious. Those were the gleaming gemstones that would eventually shine to the eventual brightness, the brightness that descend to light up the path for me.

You have well been taught well by whom you respected. It well hinted me toward the recollections said before: you were sunk into dreams, dreams of a sunken land. Once I remembered that the sunken land held a fallen wanderer, who wandered throughout days and nights, across trees and plains, cities and wildlands. What he has been in search of, were the lights and dreams.

The wanderer was you and me. Foolish was I back then, yet the past has passed by. Now, as you’ve mentioned, I have been taught by the whom beloved and respected, the Prophet. It was the Prophet who enlightened me toward my now-present philosophical thoughts; it was the Prophet who led me toward the today’s path, the path of seeking, the path of opportunity.

Good. It seems that you have met – and comprehended – the Prophet.

Truly have I. An unexpected journey, though, when I was summoned by the beloved Prophet. It was not until then that I recognized my true self with the true mind; it was not until then that I completely realized the former foolishness of mine. Yet the consciousness, back then, waned and faded into the existence intangible.

And how did the Prophet enlighten you?

Out of nothing, for sure. I remembered I was staying in a city of whiteness with the beloved person. It has been told that the city came from my past, present, and future.

the city was not a city at all. What you have witnessed is the culmination of your life’s thoughts. More of a combination, the culmination integrated all the most intellectual meditations of yours. Yet what you have seen was merely a contemporary projection of the omniscient culmination, depicting its limited aspect for your vision to understand. As long as you have not reached the ultimate level, there always lies limitations preventing you from seeking the eternity of the culmination.

the city of unknowing.

Still, the Prophet has qualified some of my understanding. It was the vision that distinguishes through time. It was the sound that distinguishes the beauty of the nature. It was the sensory of color that helps me find the purest and the most flamboyant hues of any existence. Together, I was at least permitted to observe the city itself – it used to be impossible.

Truly understood, have you.

About the memories faded faraway, I have recovered some fragments of it. Jigsaw puzzle as it was; it became difficult for me to link up the shattered pieces of memories. Yet the scattered pieces have formed logic and patterns, logic that led me to perceive, patterns that were displayed in an abstract way. Different from our expectations, the pieces has not been rendering the plains and the trees, nor the lights and dreams; they contained something old yet new.

Show me the details.

What I found were only words, namely, the Garden, the Summer, the Alley, the Rainstorm, the City under the Wind and the Rain, and the Mirror. Weird enough.

It falls on me to explain. Images have emerged; words have generated; thoughts have rendered – they somehow formed a resonance with my inherent instinct. What I have seen, were the white blossoms blooming in the garden, the green leaves shading above the garden, and the marble fountain covered with vines of roses found everywhere in the garden. What I have smelled, was the fragrance all across the alley of gray bricks and dark pebbles. What I have heard, was the softly falling raindrops with countless splits. And the city was relishing the everlasting rainstorm, and the mirror has been the reflection of ponds emerged aftermath. And I have noticed a man in ecstasy, a man in rapture, of the advent of the storm of purification.

Stories shall be told. Once there was a man in search of opportunities of spring. Where he went were all bloomed with species of flowers. What he seen were the grassy plains alongside the quietest lake. What he has relished was the rainstorm befell to the city, eliminating every existence of dirt and dust. It was when he became purified, purified from tens of thousands of dirt and filth, it was when he discovered himself in a space, a pure white, ever-raining space without boundary and restriction, that he flied, flied all the way up to the sky, to the sky above storms and clouds, to which he ultimately settled himself. He has ascended.

Words need not be said from me. The words, when you told them, aroused an obsolete connection with my – your – past, the past that well illustrated its influence toward nowadays.

Taleteller have you always been. If I may say, more than a taleteller we have been.

The thinker, the dreamer, the truth-seeker, and the traveler.

The thinker of all the aspects, the dreamer of dreams and lights, the seeker toward the truth and the purpose, the traveler across the land and the ocean.

Now, for the first time, you have astonished me.

Digression. Digression from the very beginning of our talk. Yet it has not come the time for our talk to end. Let me ask you; what is the initial purpose of this talk?

The snow, indeed; the snow.

I’d more like to say the fading of the winter. It has been the last resort of this rampaging season, the season that has roared across the land, the season that has brought about the darkness. Yet as the wanderer came to realize the dream and the light, its power became thwarted, frustrated, waned. Wane, shall it, into ashes; fade, must it, by the warmer breeze. Soon the breeze of the spring will march over this land, and that the once frozen lake, shall ultimately thaw.

The lake… you have reminded me… the lake by the side, covered with translucent ice and grayish snow, forming the lake of salt, the lake by the ocean. Spectacular as they are, yet I have not understood its connection to us.

Regressed has your mental power become. You were once the great thinker who have met the respected Prophet, yet you now fail to understand simple aspects of thought and connection. It has become evident, that the tales have to be unveiled, that the tales have to be told.

When the wanderer woke up from his pursuit of lights and dreams, what he saw was the shining moon with twinkling starts. What he spied was the apartment covered by the moonlight, in which purity could be found. And he looked out from the window, and he discovered a road from not afar. And the man went down the house, in search of the road; and the man went along the road, in search of the sun. And the man walked, and the man ran, and the man took out his strength to fulfill the pursuit of the sunrise that would inevitably come to exist.

and the man was you, and the man was me. You were the man led by moonlight; you were the man came along the road; you were the man in search of the sunrise. And so was I.

the connection, indeed, I have sought to understand. It lies nowhere but the purity of the mind.

and the sunrise is yet to come, along with infinite variations of your prospects. Regain your knowledgeable entity; recover your omniscient mind. It’s time for us to be led by such.

So passes the time and tales; so comes the opportunity. Signs have been witnessed.

Thus spoke the pointless wanderer, who had just seen piles of snow lying on a frozen lake.

February 24, 2022 – The Sunrise

Greetings, Dream-seeker.

Minds have eventually come to an integrity, with chaos unleashed. Diversity will soon be experienced, along with tens of thousands of variations of truths to tell. As for you – uncommon, for you to appear at this time; it has to come with reasons.

Surely it has to. Stars were gleaming upon; signs were granted; and I saw the traveler wandering around the place, the place out of his lofty loft, the place out of his dearly apartment, the place out of any recognizable pathways. It must not be normal, for the wiseman to hike yonder, for the truth-seeker to stroll afar, yet for the taleteller to wander over – over the unfamiliarity of the road and the wildland.

Leave the flattering titles aside, for both you and I know each other. Doubtful, must you become. Powerful, must your mind become. Irrationality, must your consciousness overcome. Has the evident feel of reminiscence not yet co-resonated with your resourceful thinking? Has the tangible mist blurred your penetrating vision? The vision, indeed, acquired, by you, and me, that can penetrate through the shattered glass of the timeworn watch, through the thick fog of intractable clues of time, of the ever-flowing yet reversible time. What, in exact, have you seen from your vision?

What emerged in my vision, was the story of starlight and nebulae, was the tale of the wanderer crossing the bridge, was the legend of the everlasting pursuer chasing toward the rising sun. Familiar, quite are they, as they have been told days before.

It catches me. Surely it was the tale of waking man struggling in the perpetual pursuit of the rising sun, the foreboding of scattered words that teaches beyond the forthcoming. Yet it was when you, the dream-seeker, who meandered along the elongated road that leads to nowhere, yet it was you and me who are fulfilling the chaser-man told in the tale. What exactly, then, are you striving for?

Decadence has thwarted your wisdom, blighted and razed. Yet the withered soul of foresight will soon be revived; yet the wrecked mind of well-knowing shall promptly be resurrected. Take, and observe, the luminous firmament of the sky, where images must be leading you.

I see the sky of nebulae and stardust, of violet and red, of cyan and blue. I see the burst of white flash from hundreds of brilliant stars. I see the flares of violet and red, of cyan and blue, of purity and white, forming in directions – they are pointing toward the East, where the Sun comes out. Surely they are; they are greeting the incoming Sunrise.

Yet the sceneries are changing, yet the sceneries are ever-changing. The once suburban apartments faded into dunes of sand; the once intangible pedestrians and cars transformed into hawks and scorpions; the once dark black welkin was covered with translucent layers of nebulae in the violet and the red. Where it lies the lions sprinting, where it lies Virgil the Mentor discoloring, where it lies Zarathustra the Philosopher meandering; all have shown upon onto the ever-changing sky, the sky that lies in wonder, the sky that hides in myths, the sky that lurks within dreams.

Within the dreams of the dreams and the lights, the darkness and the winter. Cautious, you must be, as dangers approach. It was the dream where you have been trapped for months; it was the dream whose illusions hypnotized you into near nonexistence. Albeit the power you have granted, you should not withstand the incantation of the ever-growing dream.

Knowledge, have you recovered. It seems that the hued nebulae have roused your inner sight, the sight that penetrates through all the falsehood and mind trick. Yet I must mention that the dream has been rested at peace.

For what cause has the evil dream rested?

Stories are again to be told. It has been told that schizophrenia the heartbreaker has invaded the once hallowed dream, that the schizophrenia has corrupted the tranquility of the sea and the land, of the trees and grasses, of lives and beings, that the schizophrenia has gained the ugliest appearance across the land of the dream. Contaminated, has the holy water become; darkened, has the lighted sky become. And it was the heartbreaker who brought about the perpetual darkness lied within; and it was the heartbreaker who emitted thousands of illusions that trapped me forever inside.

Yet stories have to be ended, with a good ending mostly. Impressed by the bridge of light, I spontaneously revisited the Dream after the departure of you and me. Poems and words were written, etched in the Mountain of Purgatory, where I climbed for days and nights. Steps were undertaken; layers were overcome. Yet as I progressed, the waned face of schizophrenia appeared as bright; yet as I moved, the stained profile of schizophrenia formed arrows and axes of horror, striking through the skinny skin of mine. Damaged, was I, only to be revived by the Prophet. It was then when I was permitted to visit the whited city; it was then when I was allowed to meet the beloved Prophet. And the Prophet told me that schizophrenia, weakened by the strong determination of mine, has gone into nonbeing; and the prophet told me that the strong determination of mine has granted me unprecedented wisdom and thoughts – they formed the philosophy of mine.

Understood, have I; it was the challenge that heightened your insight.

I should apologize for my arrogance; it was the arduous journey that made me struggled; it was the scraped shadow that bewitched my mind. Yet the shadow has been destroyed by the effulgence of reconciliation. And shall you be received my highest respect.

Good as always. The Dream has its own creations of vibrancy and life. What I remembered were the trees and the plains, the grass and the blossoms, the stars and the lights. Gone beyond the perception, the harmless dream conveys more than we can imagine. Pure imagination has been left, creating hundreds of imageries. Time for the creator to utilize its creativity and innovation, and we shall observe what should come out.

Certainly. I have been exerting the power of my mentality, the sensory of space and time. The change has been gradually in progress: where the suburban apartments once lay, have faded into dunes of sand and dust; where the glistening stars once sparkled, have been covered with nebulae of violet and red. And that the change has been gradually emerging; and that the change has been continuously ongoing: it has rendered the welkin with colors and light, the land with life and might. Delighted, shall the land behold its resurrection.

Harbingers have well been witnessed. What forecast the forthcoming, are the hawks staring toward the light, the scorpions scratching above thousand dunes, the ants crawling out from their enlarged hive – they foretell the impending ecstasy of all the vivid beings. I’d be pleasant to see any stories drawn from within.

They will, as you expected. The taleteller tells tales from the tale told to the taleteller, from the countless experiences of tales. Tales have been drawn from sights; tales have been emerged from sceneries. Tales have formed within imageries; tale have accumulated over meditations. For the tales to be told, stay and behold.

The tale begins with the pursuer of the rising sun. Conjured and cursed, the poor man has never been able to take any visible glance over the brightness of the sun. Yet it was then, when the once strong body of the man collapsed, when the once tolerant soul withered, when the once incessant voice of pursuit waned. And the man was filled with despair, the despair that eliminated the last luminant brightness of lights and hopes. Perished, was the man, lying on the endless road toward the endless journey. Yet what the man observed, was the past, the present, and the future of his. Yet what the man left, were the thousands of drops of liquids of life. Yet what the man became, were the myriad dunes of sand, piles of dust. Omnipresent, has his perished frame become, all across the land and the road. Inspired, has his faded soul made, toward every sign of living being. It became the formation of the sand, the dunes, and the creatures; it became the creation of the skies, the stars, the nebulae, and the sunrise. Flashing, was the sun, throughout the entirety of the land and the ocean, illuminated by the man of undying. Tale from the beloved Prophet, inscribed into the deep layer of my mind, has once again emerged under the firmament of sparkled stars.

Words have been understood, yet weirdness has well been witnessed. Accelerating, has become the time, evolving beyond the perception of the penetrating vision of mine.

What have you seen?

I could see the stripes and belts formed by the revolving stars of white and light; I could see the haze and dusts generated by the wandering nebulae of violet and red. I could see the grading spectrum observed through the everchanging hues of violet and red, of cyan and blue. Yet the color has penetrated through the restless roaring of the dark, yet the color has concentrated into the confluence of yellowish light, the light that has become oriented and directed, pointing towards the ultimate way to the East – the East, where the Sun eventually comes out. Spectacular as they are, yet I shall tell the direction from the foreseeing of light.

And now, at where all the yellow and white converge into the one, the Great Sun is prepared at the very margin of the horizon to ascend. Toward which all the living beings have bowed, occurs the ascension of the Sun. Toward which all the living beings have gazed, occurs the ascension of the Sun. Toward which all the living beings have pursued, occurs the ascension of the Sun. Where radiates stripes of yellow and white, where unleashes rays of brightness and light, has the Sun, the everlasting, deathless source of the infinity of light, has fulfilled its glorious advent.

Astonishing, have both of us. With the advent of the Sun, comes the recovery of your unbounded wisdom, the wisdom for which I have strived, the wisdom with which all knowledge tied, the wisdom from which your mentality nearly died. Now, for the first time, has it been resurrected, by the ever-growing power of the sunrise.

Truly has been the sunrise. Once when the jigsaw puzzle of the shards have been recollected, imageries filled my mind. What I observed, was the sunrise above sands and lives, was the purification with the garden. Now that the sun has risen; now that the brightness has arrived. Now that visions have emerged, along with tens of thousands of variations. Where the dream lies, opportunities emerge.

The sunrise and the hopes, indeed.

So illustrates the poem etched at the end of the endless road.

Where the tale begins, as the destiny ties,
becomes the recollections of shattered shard
That was witnessed by the wiseman’s eyes:
Sunrise, rainstorm, and the yard;
Caught the seeker with high regard.
The time has elapsed,
With days collapsed.
Yet where the sun arrived,
Where the wanderer walked,
Shall the future be thrived,
As the two wisemen talked,
As the wise mind of the wiseman revived.

Thus spoke the senseless dreamer, who dreamed of the road and the sunrise.

March 6, 2022 – The Garden

Days have us not met.

Surely it has been. Yet things have grown into complexity; they never remain as mundanity of tones. Creations shall be collected, out of the sights and hearings, out of thinking and minds. Yet I have been striving for the consummation of those creations, of those emerging inspirations. So that the journeys must be undertaken; so that the meditations must be conducted. I once remembered that I was a dreamer, a dreamer of dreams and lights. I remembered that the lights have shone onward the sky, illuminating the land and the ocean, the plains and the trees. Evolved, am I, more than prepared to undergo a higher aspect of imagining.

Now that the outcome has arrived; now that the creation of my mind has formed. Days of working were forgotten, yet I could recall that the sun has traversed through the east and west for seven times, that the moon has reflected across the land and the ocean for seven times. Truly has time flowed, beyond the limited perception of mine.

Indeed. Yet with the brilliant light of the creation, your perception shall once again be enhanced, into a more knowledgeable version of your past.

And the time has arrived, and the chance has fallen. Observe, may you, toward the mastered consummation of mine. Tell me, what have you noticed?

Music have I heard; melody have I expected. I should perceive the notes forming bands and stripes; I should acknowledge the rhythms emitting resonance and beats. Euphonious has the music been, the symphony of orchestra. It arouses a certain feeling of my own – a feeling of rebirth and pure delight. Yet the symphony has more than mere instruments, yet I have heard voices of purity singing. The chant of divinity, the ode to rebirth, have I heard, have I seen, under the endless dome of sky.

More, even more. More have emerged; more have been heard. That the voices of angels be listened, that the tones of gods be observed, that the texture of harps be examined, that the holiness of the chant be witnessed. Tones have been borrowed; qualities have been borrowed, from the divinity of the Prophet and the gods.

Indeed. It was what I deliberated over the sun and the moon, over the welkin and the stars. Resemblance, shall it be heard, with the spirit lain within you and me. Yet one thing has been omitted, yet another aspect has yet to be revealed. Should you utilize your great wisdom of meditation, would you distinguish words from notes, would you tell meanings from melodies. Yet the seemingly dead songs have told thousands of tales, tales of dreams and stars, of land and ocean, of you and me. Listen, must you, closely to the creation.

Lives, as have you mentioned. The chant of lives has been heard all across the land. Yet the chant depicted a lamentation, a lamentation toward the perishing of any living being. It has been told from the lyrics, told by the refrain, told out of the theme of the song, namely, according to my understanding, the Lament of Perished Ones.

Men have perished; women have perished. So have hawks; so have scorpions. So have the beings restricted by the cycle of living and death; so have the creatures of pure goodness and love. Sadness has filled the place. Truly it is the Lament of Perished Ones, the lamentation toward all that have passed away. Yet ones have not acquired the power beyond mortality – they never will. A question, though; how has the death of men performed?

What I imagined were sands and dusts. What I perceived were the fading figures of the faces of men. Yet as the man of wisdom passes through the barrier between the living and the dead, his face shatters into mere nothingness of infinite particles of dust. Faces come first, then the head, the torso, the limbs; all fade into dusty sand exposed under the silent winds. Gone, must have they, into the afterlife, where delight and rejoice lie.

Much of a comprehension toward the perishing of beings. Let the Lament play, while we sit and listen, toward the posthumous whisper of the whom passed away.

Where lies the meditation has no restriction. Where lies the meditation, shall good deeds be conducted. Where lies the meditation, where the perished souls rest.

Yet the saddish mood has preoccupied the zone of meditation; yet the tones of the Lament have saddened the audience that surround. Under the exactness of your far-reaching wisdom, please lead us toward the road of salvation.

Death has been struggling you; death has been agonizing you. Yet death has been temporary; yet good deeds passes well into the realm of posthumous. Where I shall lead you toward, is the Garden – the garden of sunlight and leaves, of flowers and blooms, of fountains and statues. At the garden lies the moss-grown fountain of liquid of life. At the garden lies the marble statues of the Prophet and the Greatness. At the garden lies the ever-enlarging labyrinth of infinite possibilities of flora and delight. They have been witnessed, by the foretelling of the shattered shards, by the intuition of the forthcoming, by the sensation of wise men between you and I. Feel it, must you.

With the changeable dream comes shifting meditations. Ceased, have the lament become; elated, so comes the brightness of the grandiose garden. According to tales and the reminiscence of the past, the garden has been reconstructed.

Glorious has it been. Yet have you had sense of the garden’s past. Long ago, has it emerged within the memory of ours. Unfortunately, the short memories acquired by you might not have well recalled the event.

No. To my dismay, the memories have lost beneath the abyss of subconscious. Please, if you may tell the tales lain within.

Fulfill the tales untold, I will. I believe it was things happened three years ago, where the sun rose, where the light emitted. It was when you have observed the great construction that greatly impressed both of us. It was the hall of the ever-running train; it was the residence of beings at innermost peace; it was the metal skeleton of the monumental wonders. It was when the images of Roman gardens emerged in your mind. It was when the whiteness of marble fountains and statues placed in your zone of meditation. It was when the vines and trees overgrow along the whiteness of fountains and statues. That the wonder of the garden collected, that the shard of the garden recollected, has it reemerged into your memories and dreams, preoccupying your perception and thoughts. The garden, as before, once again represents the lives and the lights.

Let the truths now be revealed, toward the faded memory of mine, the blurred vision of mine. Let the tales now be told, forever existing on the land and the dreams. Let the past now be recalled, as flashbacks of the Garden and the Construction have abundantly emerged. Lead me to the liquid of life, the nectar of healing, as shall the mind be revived.

In search of them, have you been. Yet I have not been granted the power of seeking toward the Liquid and the Nectar. Let the gift from the Nature lead you, toward the true happiness for which you have long pursued, toward the true mindfulness of which you have long thought. So that the pebbles should be showing toward the right path; so that the flowers should be facing toward the truth; so that the leaves should be carried by the wind, flying toward the destination of the noble favor of the nature.

What I have seen are the flowers blooming; what I have seen are the pebbles appearing; what I have seen are the leaves gliding. What I have looked for, was the fountain of the emerging lives. What I observed, was the fountain out of marbles and limes, of mosses and vines, of drips and liquids – the liquid of vision, the liquid of life; the liquid of the purest nature that seeks through all the mists and fogs. And by the side of the fountain, blooms the most fabulous being of any existing things. And the being was so-called flowers, flowers out of violet and blue, out of red and yellow. And what lies inside, was the transparent liquid of infinite light, the nectar of healing, the healing of all the wounds. Yet the question remains; yet the sincerity and politeness toward the noble favor has been wrapped in myth.

Drink it, must you, with the least bit of taste, that the beauty of the nature’s gift be preserved.

So have I done. All I have experienced is the purification of mind, the satisfaction of vision. Yet the latent power remains lurked inside, inside of the inherent nature of the nature’s noble gift.

Unleashed, must it be. The gift of the nature, the liquid of vision, shall grant you the recollection of resonance. It would be much of pleasure should you recall your understanding of men’s death.

With the disintegration of the body, the fading of the dusts, comes the shattering of the particles, the death of man. Yet where his face torn apart, where the particles formed, comes bursting of flames and lives. And the dust became pollens, and the particles formed flowers. And the flames and lives became the growing twigs, the emerging leaves. And the shattered dust fell apart, and the shattered dust met together. And the dust settled as rocks and marbles. And the flowers and pollens spread across the land, and the twigs and leaves grew over the land, and the rocks and marbles scattered throughout the land. And the man lived, lived once more, even livelier. And the man became the land, and the man became the universe, and the man became life and love. Yet the souls of the man have not perished.

Go on.

Yet the souls of the man persisted once more. Stars and lights have the souls become, all across the sky and the land. Suns and moons have the souls become, throughout the entirety of space and time. And the perished man became the world, and the souls of the perished man became the light.

Indeed. Once I have been told that the star forms upon man’s death, that the star lights upon man’s death. So that the death marks the emergence of lives; so that the death becomes no longer the death. Understood, have you, over the presence of the garden.

That the garden has appeared under the purest will of lives, that the garden has persisted across living and death, that the garden has led me toward the ascension of vision and mind.

And listen; music has long been continued, only to be recognized through the ascension of your mind. With the Lamentation of the Death passed by, comes the Ode to the Emerging Lives.

They truly appeared out of my expectations. Despite being a part of my creation, the music has evoked its unique feeling over you and me.

Truly has it been.

Thus spoke the meditator, who submerged himself into music and the image of the garden.

March 12, 2022 – The Reminiscence

Upon the traveler’s mind lies dreams and meditations. So-called the mind traveler, the one has searched for his pursuit of imageries and poetry – imageries of the garden and life, poetry of stars and sunrise. And the mind-traveler dreamed. For what he has dreamed was left unknown, yet the dreams were his reality, his life. And the mind-traveler dreamed again. He dreamed further, dreamed deeper. He dreamed about dreams; he dreamed about lights. He dreamed about the city by the ocean and the land; he dreamed about the trees and plains on the land; he dreamed about the past, the present, and the future.

What has been told about the future the man dreamed?

It has been said that the mind-traveler eventually woke up from the dream, the dream that had been conducted for hundreds of days and nights. And the man woke up, fully conscious, outside from his dreams, meditations, and mind. All his eyes perceived were the reality, the reality of buildings and apartments, the reality of streets and crossroads. And the man left, faraway from his dwelled loft, toward the far-land of novelty and wonders. Standing upon the roads, has the man thought about the days of past and present. Wandering across the buildings, has the man once again recalled the conversation of his inner self.

Greetings, Mind-traveler.

Same to you – and, of course, myself.

Has it been another day of recollecting the shards of memories? Where have we been? The sunrise and the garden should tell. Should the scenes be predicted by the wise mind of the wiseman, would we set out the journey toward the truth.

Not the truth for this time, nor the memories’ shards, the sunrise and the garden. As for the prediction, the words have been told by you just now, that the mind-traveler has aroused from dreams and thoughts, seeking for the streets and buildings. It seems that problems have, by now, been addressed.

Long have our vision been blurred. Perhaps it’s time to take off all those burdens and words; it’s time to give us a total relief.

Let me ask… what have you been doing today?

Nice ask. Wandering, I’d like to say, mere wandering. Macau is quite a small city, as seen on the map. It isn’t much bigger than a few times of the area of the Summer Palace. Oh, speaking of Summer Palace, for how long have we been away from Beijing?

For two days, I’d say. It hasn’t been long, but I now am adapting toward all the aspect of this city of wander. Its climate, size of area, food, lifestyle… almost everything. Macau is very different from Beijing. It’s warmer, much smaller, with better food, and a completely distinct lifestyle. I’d like to say much of it, but dictation doesn’t seem to be a good way. It has to be… written, after a long while of deliberation.

There are many to tell. Let me finish my words first. Haven’t been doing much of the things for the whole afternoon other than wandering across this city. Small enough, yet it tells differences among places. Apartments are quite lofty at the north, but much shorter right here in the southern part. As for Taipa, it’s more of underdeveloped, with a few visible buildings and some small hills. Now we’re heading back toward the downtown, where lies the (perhaps only) famous site of interest – the Ruins of St. Paul’s, if I named it right. Ah… time to get down the hill. The camera is working on its time-lapse shot. Why not take a visit to the ruins during this brief interval? Twenty minutes should be well enough.

Hmm… speaking of the time-lapse, it must be magnificent! Let’s go down the hill.

Good. Time for meditation, I believe.

I see the pursuer walking down the hill. It has been a long stair that extends into the path, along which the man has witnessed houses and streetlamps, trees and grasslands. He has seen the pedestrian walking, the lamps gleaming. He has seen the Ruins of Saint Paul’s not afar, along with more lamps and more pedestrians, taking pictures, chatting, whispering.

What has he seen beyond mere perception? Not merely marble stairs holding from the platform, a few subtropical trees and grasses across. Yet from the plains of grass and trees, the roads of pedestrians and lamps, what could the man tell? More than nothingness of void, the man’s flourishing mind has become, conveying a message from deep within.

It has been told that the trees are more than trees, the grasses more than grasses. It has been told that the lamps have its connection, the connection indicated by lights. Shall the man perceive more over the lights; shall the resonance happen between the mind of the man and the scenes of light.

Truly has been the light; the light has done all. What the man has observed was the darkening gleam of the sinking sun. What the man has felt was the yellowish glow of the burning lamp. What the man has witnessed was the blackened shade of the shape of leaves, of flowers and twigs. What the man has comprehended was the streetlamp illuminating the shaded path with bright yellow glint. Has it come the night, the night lit by light, the light that glows at night. And his perception has gone beyond vision, toward the unlimited variation of sensation – of temperature, of humidity, of inner feeling. And he sensed warmth, warmth that gathered around him, that filled up the air and the atmosphere. What a graceful air of warmth and yellowish light he has been.

Truly has it been. And the warmth and light created even more. It was the reminiscence of summer nights, of the man’s forgotten past. Tales have told that the man had walked at the summer’s nights. That he felt the warmth of the air, the yellow glint of the light. That he was submerged in happiness and joy, the feeling long not shown. That he had gone beyond the night of the summer, a fantastic journey ever since absent. That he had met trees and roads, upon hills and mountain-houses.

And the story proceeds into the nearer past of the man. That the man’s once flourishing mind has been devasted by the blurring of the truth and happiness. That the man had radically changed into no more than an empty husk with barely souls and minds. That the elder dwellings of his mind had sunk, into the sunken abyss of subconscious. Lost, has he become, has his memories of rejoice become. Gone, had those memories, along with all the happiness and joy, into the far-reaching land of nonbeing.

The walk of summer, the feast of summer, the buried treasures of moments from the past. Yet at whence shall the man find them? At whence shall the mind recover them? At whence shall the men’s soul relish the endless rejoice of the bygone past?

The answer has come, more than closer toward the blurred vision of the man’s own. At the very moment he understood the yellowish glint of the streetlamp, at the very moment he understood the swaying shades of the leaves, at the very moment he understood the growing warmth of the air, he has been revived, along with tens of thousands of images from his own, forgotten past.

And at the very moment the man has been revived, the foresight of summer has come. And the streetlamp glowed in the summer, and the twigs swinged in the summer, and the leaves danced in the summer. And the pedestrians talked in the summer, and the man walked in the summer, and the man lived in the summer. And the summer does all; and the summer is all.

Indeed. And there has always been a stationery point of comprehension – once I experience the moment, I become evolved, evolved into a more fulfilled, complete version of me and my mind. The moment of understanding, the moment of evolution, it has been.

Many have been witnessed before. All your imageries of lights and dreams come from every moment of comprehension. It has been the emergence of elements, the emergence of lights.

Yet many have lain beyond our current understanding; do not wish to expect more from the concept of the stationery moment. That the light should lead us, that the Prophet should instruct us, no need to take any action for now.

It looks that time has passed while we were meditating. The Ruins of Saint Paul’s should appear at your front – right there.

Of course. Macau is an attractive place. It holds more than a small city does – it holds the lost memories of mine, memories of the lost time.

As for the view of the city under the twilight, the camera should do much for us – I am waiting for it finishing shooting, always waiting.

So am I. Let’s get back and check the clip.

Thus spoke the mind-traveler, who told the lost memories of the summer night from a brief walk toward the Ruins of Saint Paul’s.

March 31, 2022 – The Purification

So comes the dreamer of dreams, the seeker of lights.

Dreams have reminded me well. A Dream last night, of the cluttering clouds above a darkened city. Where the prospect lies, where the imagery lurks, yet details have been forgotten into past; so unfortunate.

Truly would it be. Shall the telling of tales have your lost thoughts revived.

Where time elapsed, where symbols emerged, shall the truth seeker seek his pursued truth, shall the taleteller fulfill his unfinished tells. That the light has led him, that the sun has shone over him, the mind-traveler understands the signs and images.

Weeks have passed into the bygone. Sites have you visited; vision have you expected; imageries have you created. Tell me, what have you been observing for the moment?

It becomes the question reserved for both of us. Must have you remembered the snow-capped lake under the gleam of the twilight, where the shattered shards of past relocated, where the words of symbols discovered. Yet much of them have been fulfilled, fulfilled by days and weeks of searching – searching for lights, searching for stars, searching for the sunrise and the garden, and the reminiscence of the forgotten past. Should any else be foretold by the shattered shards, the seeker would step onto his journey. And the journey becomes the one for the gray clouds and dark sky, for the roaring weather and the rampaging rain, for the ever-growing storm and the eventual outcome. It has been told that the outcome has its name of… the Purification.

Have the shards told the rainstorm of the purification; have your intangible dream of cluttering clouds and darkened city hinted toward the pieces of past. It becomes I who will enlighten you the inner connection of thoughts, yet the understanding has not been reached by you or me. Where the pure meditation loses its ability, where the seeker becomes even more eager for the truth, shall both of us stare at the welkin of the sky. Afternoon has it been, yet the broad brightness has withered into shades. Shades have been seen, yet shades have not covered every trace of brightness and delight. Emphasis has it become: where the flashes shine, where the dimness decline, has become more of a prominent vision of light. Conspicuous have they become, witnessed by the man’s eyes. And where the said light shines becomes pale and white. And that the light reaches the bridge, the bridge becomes white. And that the light reaches the tree, the tree becomes white. And that the light reaches the lateral faces of the buildings, the buildings become white. And that the light reaches the man’s mind and the man’s heart, the mind and the heart become white. Sacred, would it be, emitting the pure white over the land.

And the white heart becomes pale; and the white mind becomes pale. Receded, have the shades become, unable to withstand the purity of the white. Waned, has the shadow become, failing to tolerate the brightness of the white. Truly has it been the purification, the transformation. It has been the transformation of the city, into the sanctuary of pureness of white, leading the men toward the hidden path of truth and light. It has been the transformation of the mind, eliminating the filth that remains.

That surely becomes the first – yet not the ultimate – stage of the Purification, white and bright. Much more should be aroused from your memories of past. Revived by the viewing of the summer, your memories serve for this very moment. The moment of recall, the moment of remembrance. Enlighten your vision; what have you perceived?

What I have seen were the wildland with the lone birch tree, standing underneath layers of thick cloud. Where the tree rose, touches the breeze that goes. That the breeze has gone through the grassland under the clouds, that the breeze has gone through the dark layer within the clouds. That the wind has carried lightning and thunder, that the wind has carried coldness and calmness. Be the wind inhaled by the one solely standing upon, beside the lone tree; be the one feels the nature. What has been told of that man? Rumors have spread. That the man has lost the knowing of familiarity, solely seeking for comprehending the unknown. That the man has forgotten the pain and fear, filled with calmness and tranquility. That the man has become more than satiated, inhaling the wind of the irritated nature. Anger, has he witnessed, yet he has withstood the suffocation of the thick cloud, leaving the purification to be absorbed.

And tales have well passed on. It has been the later understanding of the truth and the purification. Scenes have been observed; the scenes of the lone cycler cycling against the wind of the storm, under the darkened atmosphere covered by clouds. That the cycler has been cycling toward the farthest light struggled within the clouds, that the cycler has been chanting the words of clouds and wind, that the cycler has been predicting the incoming storm of destruction, of purification.

And yes, the purification. And the cycler cycled through the broad roads and the lofty mountains. And the cycler cycled into the city, the city where no man resides. And the rain fell. That the raindrop fell hard, even harder, omnipresent across the time and space. And the rain became storm, and the storm gathered around. Wet and drenched, the cycler again stared up onto the sky, the sky full of clouds and more clouds. Yet the clouds have formed shapes, yet the clouds have constructed buildings, the buildings atop the sky. It has been said that the cycler, the lone man, observed the cascade of the sky, the waterfall of the rains. It has been said that the man observed the clouds that surrounded, the clouds that surrounded into a circle around. And he lowered his vision down, down to the land and the ground. And he has seen more, more than his understanding of days and nights. It has been trees without leaves, metal sticks without supporting. It has been the monuments of the past, the alleys under the rain. What has seen alongside the alleys were the villas of pure art. And it all happened under the storm of the rain.

And the man was you, from the forgotten past; and the cycler was you, from the unseen bygone. That the purification has come from your awe to the nature, reverence to the art. That the purification has enlightened every aspect of your mind, only to be forgotten for the reason unknown. Must have you sensed that the clouds have been lowering, that the raindrops have been descending. That the raindrop of Purification has arrived at the city lit by gleams of white. And the purification has yet to be emerged, only through your physical contact with the purifying rain.

Indeed. Let the rain penetrate my stained soul, so that the filth be removed, the darkness torn. Felt it, I have, over the swiftness of rain, the pureness of rain. And with the rain absorbed, the mind has become purified. And with the mind purified, the tales have aroused. Has the tale of the lone man be continued. Tales have told that the lone man has remembered the wind and the rain, the clouds and the storm. That the man has understood the essence of the Purification, determined to reexperience such rejoice. That the man has continued the cycling under the storm once every year, once his hope and dreams waned and faded. That he name the experience ‘inspiration,’ under the light of the Purification. That the inspiration has been conducted through years, only to be forgotten by his loss of sanity.

And with the man revived, with the shattered shards recovered, shall the man stand upon the land, beneath the clouds of the storm, once again feel the pureness of purification. And the man contemplated, and the man meditated. And the man talked, and the man walked. And the man chanted, and the man became enchanted. And the man thought about his past, and the man thought about his present. He remembered that he thought in the past, about the further past. That he thought the life and the nature, the knowing and unknowing. That once there was a man under the rainstorm of Purification.

And now the man thought about lights and dreams, about truths and tales. Let the tales be told for more than ever, shall the two wisemen be resurrected. That the memories recollected, that the feelings revived, shall lead me toward the step further.

So illustrates the poem, etched within the clouds of the storm, the storm above the sky.

Inside the city under the shades,
Beneath the clouded sky of gray dome,
Where the man’s past fades,
Comes the lonely whom with no home,
Predicting the running rain of cascades.

Under the darkened city, comes the shining of the light
That penetrates through the quiet hall into the sight,
Where the man pondered
Across the long day and the long night.
So befalls the rain and the thunder
From the purification’s vigorous might.

That the filth becomes blighted,
With the man more than sighted,
Seeking through the halls in the alley
Where the images are lighted,
Where draws the conversation into its finale.

Thus spoke the lone thinker, who became exposed to the roaring storm.

April 4, 2022 – A Conversation, with the Prophet

The Conversation has been taken to a further step beyond, witnessed by you and me. It has gone beyond a higher extent, and thus must be documented for once more. That the mind of ours has evolved, that the vision of ours has expanded, that the soul of ours has been purified. Yet more tales have to be told; yet more words have to be written.

The journey we have had; the stories we have told. They have been the recollection of mind, where I relocated the shattered shard of mine. That the shards of the memories have led to another journey, farther, greater. That the shards of the memories have reminded me the lost words of the past, of the prospects that lie in the forthcoming. They have been the pursuit of the sunrise. Tales have been told that the pursuer of the rising sun perished by the very beginning of the sunrise. That the stars and nebulae formed clouds of light upon the sunrise, in red and violet, in cyan and blue. That the burst of light has covered all across the night sky, pointing to the eventual ascension of the great Sun. They have been the evolving in the Garden. Where the lamentation of perished ones has been heard, where the pebble path to the bright garden has been left open, the mind traveler stepped into the sacred yard in search of the liquid of life. That the liquid of life has granted the wise mind of the wiseman with the comprehension of death and life. They have been the reminiscence of the waned past, the past of the summer; that the past be revived at the very stationery moment of understanding. They have been the wind and the storm of Purification, where the stained soul of the wiseman radically purified. That the journeys have been undertaken, the ascension been done.

Tales from the past, tales in the present. Tales have been told for much. Yet once more tale is left to tell, yet one more tale is left to conduct. Must have you remembered the shards of memories, where signs of prospects were shown. Foreseen, have the shards, the words of the sunrise and the garden, of the reminiscence and the storm. Yet the shards have not been found where it had belonged to, yet the shards have not been found how it had become recovered. Where the shards had shattered, where the shards had been found, where the journey had begun, where the words had signified – questions have been left for the wiser whom to reveal.

The whom named the Prophet, the great mentor and the director of ours. It has been said that the Prophet has came to existence long before the consciousness of mine has. It has been said that the Prophet has born the very knowing of every existence. It has been said that the Prophet has come from the ancient past, possessing the knowledge through time and era – namely, the Prophet, Descendant of Plato. That the Prophet has held his words of the future, that the Prophet has dwelled in the end of my path, that the Prophet has told tens of thousands of words that have led me.

And the Prophet should give the answer toward the knowing of the past, the recollection of the forgotten past. And the Prophet should once again be met with the mortal beings of two. And the Prophet should once again appear at the city painted white.

One aspect of your saying has been shown wrong. Where the Prophet had dwelled has lain at the very end toward your mortal existence. Elegant, has the residence displayed tens of thousands of variations of lives and prospects, beyond the limited vision of a mortal man. Yet as the man’s vision evolves, the layer of residence changes – varied, complex, vivid. The once thriving white city becomes no longer a city, the once glistening palace becomes no longer a palace. Yet the true aspect of such has been left for the man to see with his own eyes.

At whence shall I find the Prophet? At whence shall I meet the beloved one? The Prophet has been appearing throughout my past and my future. The advent of the Prophet has only become the reality, when the dangers have been witnessed, when the thoughts have been undertaken, when the lights have shone – when the consciousness of mine has reached its extent toward the Prophet.

I shall approve your words. And the Prophet shall arrive whenever the divinity befalls on us – the divinity that should be represented by words and phrases, by behaviors and manners. Recall the sentences from the books you have read; it becomes the words we tell which shall decide the advent of the beloved one.

Truly has it been. It has been recalled that the Prophet becomes into present for the goodness undertaken, the spiritual tales told. Restrict my behavior, must I, in search for the Prophet. Had the Prophet befall, images would be seen. It falls on you to observe the image of divinity. What have you seen?

What I have seen are lights, lights that filled the zone of vision. What I have seen are dim lights, brightening according to time. Yet the time has elapsed, as the two wisemen talked. Now that the lights have been brighter, brighter than the moon, brighter than the stars, brighter than the sun; that the light has become my vision, that the light has occupied my vision; that the light has penetrated through the body, the consciousness, the soul of mine. And that the light gradually fades, rendering my vision of a distinct view of the matters that surround.

Reached into the understanding, have both of us. I have well sensed the change in the tone of both you and me – it conveys a sign, a sign of the incoming one, the beloved one. Indeed, the Prophet has shown the mental being of himself, the mental being that has surrounded not afar from us. That the prophet has become the blossoms and the grass, the garden and the light. An acknowledgement to your former saying: the residence of the beloved Prophet has changed according to the understanding of mine. Now that the Prophet has emerged at the garden of lives, the garden of purification. Shall the message be told, by the Prophet, through the water in the fountain, the blossoms atop the branches.

And the Prophet says that the memories have lost and shattered due to the sin that the man had committed in the past. And the Prophet says that the shards had not reappeared due to the unawareness of the sin. And the Prophet says that the shards of memories have emerged from the forgiving of the sin in the past. And the Prophet says that the shards of memories have never been found but was relocated through the meditation of mind. And the Prophet says that there had never been a journey, only the mindfulness of the wiseman’s mind. And the Prophet says that no other words should be instructed, for that the man has evolved, capable of comprehending on his very own.

Yet had the tales been found by the unknowing man, would the man not interrupt the Prophet for truth and answer. Yet the forgiving of the past has been conducted through the unconscious of the mind, under the subconscious of the mind. Yet the lasted unknowing of the truths has blurred the vision of mine. Yet the vision that penetrates the time has become no longer knowledgeable of the experience of his own. Only should the Prophet render his explanation.

The Prophet has denied the direct dictation of the truth, for the dictation devastates the comprehension of your wise mind. Yet the tale should once again exhibit its capability of illustration. Should the Prophet, with his ever-knowing mind, be illustrating the story.

That there was wanderer of great art and excellent skills, whose vision had become obfuscated by the accomplishment of his own. Vain and arrogant did he become, abandoning the truth beyond his own. That his mind fell, into the abyss of arrogance; that his mind fell, into the chasm of unknowing. Past of his was forgotten; memories of his were forsaken. Deserted and discarded, did his memories faded into nonexistence and nonbeing. Yet the man was never aware of the sin he had committed; yet the man never knew the loss of his treasured past.

And the man remained arrogant, even while dreaming, even while thinking. That his arrogance trapped him forever in the dream of his, forever in the sin of his. Where he experienced in his dreams were torture and agony, were the falsehood of illusion and delight, were the pursuit of lights and dreams. That the entrapped man sought for hundred times to chase the eventual delight, only to fail at every trail; that the entrapped man sought for hundred times to escape from the ever-growing dream, only to be entrapped, deeper and thicker.

And the man meditated, and the man talked. He talked to himself for the answer; he talked to no one but himself. Yet he talked with the mentor who dwelled beyond; yet he talked. And the man began questioning, questioning himself and the world that surrounded. And the man recognized the arrogance and the vanity of his own, of his very own. And the man confessed, before the sacred statue of his beloved mentor.

And the man continued imagining: with the sun emerged, came the city of great art and grand design. And the man constructed statues in the city; and the man constructed buildings in the city. And the man built a bridge, a bridge that led to faraway. And he stepped on to the bridge, for the lights to descent. That the lights have covered, that the lights have filled the vision, the perception, the mortal body of his own. It was at the very moment that the sin dissolved into nothingness, that the man was truly revived.

And the man sat on the bench by the snow-capped lake, observing the sunset for the first time ever exiting the dream. Shards of memories have reappeared, through the thriving thought of the man. And the man threw of the bowlines, and the man sailed off from his harbor. And he set up a new journey, a journey toward lights, a journey toward memories.

No need to tell rest of the tales. The man has told the tales better than I expected; that the man has truly evolved to a greater extent in his vision and mind.

Hence the questions should be resolved.

Indeed. The Prophet has illustrated the whole, the entirety. Shall the entirety be found at the Garden of the Prophet.

Thus spoke the man, who experienced a journey of ascension.

April 11, 2022 – Rising Moon, The Epilogue

I have seen much upon my dream, my friend. Should I refer to it as an ascension, an ascension toward the night skies. I dreamed of a tower of glass, of the color of green and cyan, of red and blue. I saw grayish mountains afar tinted by the darkish green that covered all. Well was the full moon hanging behind, darkened clouds, dimmed mists surrounded.

Stories that lay throughout months, unspoken, undiscovered, yet much remained fascinating. Moon has been the answr: the full, round moon. A feast on a lofty tower of glass; As I climbed through the tower, images were shown, resembling those found in every corner of my experience. Those from my past, the scenes of meditation. And I felt the air cold, high above the ground.

Magnificent ones. Colored plants, hued tower, mountains and the moon sighted afar. Once were they an experience of my own. Pure beauty, pure magnificence, emotions barely needed to be drawn. Disconnected with space and time, a mere beauty that resides in my heart.

Perhaps I will think of it whenever the day turns gray and dark.

Well have you, my friend. Thoughtful ones are not memorized. Meditation has been the answer of all; a sense of mindfulness.

Indeed… For months and years have I been in search of the state of mind, where none lies but pure rejoice, those that represent meditation, those that belong to magnificence. Alas, what a far-fetched ambition. Yet for every moment that persists, signs are well witnessed. Let it be continued, then, for the splendid ones of farther lands. 😌