The Reconciliation

It was once said that the nameless wanderer had restored the magnificent art of his. That the words of poems have emerged from his great mouth, that the sight of vision has accompanied his vast wisdom, that the mind of his has been even greater than ever before. That the wanderer had travelled to the where has lain the answer toward anonymity, the mitigation of anger, the knowing of truths. That he has restored the artistic creation from the alley under the storm, the storm within clouds; that he has realized the beauty of vast things inside the garden of spectacles. It seems that the nameless one has come to revive the innermost mindfulness of his.

Must have you been referring to both of us. That I had been the lone wanderer of lights and dreams, that I had been the pointless explorer of memories and thoughts. Yet the state of mindfulness has long fled into the darkened shadow; yet the excellent art has vanished into less than nothingness. For the journey that had been taken, the thoughts that had been undertaken, bursts of meditation should have arrived. Should have it been the arrival of the birds, birds that carry lights. Lost, am I; helpless, more than have been I.

Have you ever remembered the arrogance of yours nearly upon the sunrise of ours, where you vainly mocked the lack of wisdom of mine? Have you ever remembered the mountain of storm upon the near destruction of your consciousness, where the schizophrenia had overwhelmed your mind of thinking? Have you ever remembered the year-long struggle of dreams and illusions? That the once tortured wretched wanderer had returned to his great state of mindfulness, yet to be impressed of the painful road he had taken. That the once suffered miserable seeker had regained the meditation of his, yet to be directed by the faithful logic of his. That he had become arrogant of all matter his vision captured; that he had become more than confident of the elegant construction built in his mind. Yet the ever-thriving republic will eventually witness the downfall of their proudful democracy under the vicious hand of its own; yet the omniscient wiseman will eventually experience the corruption of his own.

You ought not to infringe me of my masterpiece. That the accomplishment of current mine has been the craft of my wisdom and art, on which you shall not comment.

On whence has your great structure of knowledge been built? The road of suffer it has been. And it needs not be asked for the one who travelled on the road. Signs of anger have been witnessed, where you displayed your irreverence toward me. It has aroused from the inner struggle of yours; that the mountain of storm has taken over your consciousness, that the arrogance and the anger has occupied your mind.

And the Anger has emerged from your loss of mindfulness, loss of mind power. That the magnificence of land and ocean has faded, the view of city and peace waned. That they all accounted for your ever-growing, rampaging anger, along with the mountain of storm, the schizophrenia. That you felt yourself turned against you, that you sensed the matters of the world contradicted your thinking. Must it be ended; the ignorance of yours.

I do feel the roaring anger overwhelming. Forgive me my arrogance. Will you please lead the pathway toward the knowing?

The pathway ought to be created by yourself, through the three Tales. Will the tales remind you of the redemption, where you stood under the rainwater of the wrath of the welkin, covered by grimy clouds. Has the first tale reminded you of your arrogance and anger, retrieving your consciousness not for long. More have to be taken.

It began when you had fallen into your long dream, the long dream of dreams and illusions. That you have constantly suffered from the perturbance of your inner peace, under the overwhelming anger of things. That you have later realized that the anger came from the mountain of the storm, where the schizophrenia had taken its physical form. That the form has been the form of hatred, the form of disturbance; every once it emerged inside your head, it gradually converted you into the mindless one as it became, devoid of rejoice and meditation, of wisdom and believe – devoid of everything, except arrogance, ignorance, and limitless anger.

It wasn’t until you discovered the Tower of Celebration, did the once-tightened memories reemerged within your recovered mind. Yet things had happened before the reestablishment of your consciousness before the recognition of your failure. Under the devastation of your thinking, upon the recurrence of anger, what have you envisioned? Not merely the shadow of schizophrenia, the flame of the anger; precious ones have well accumulated within.

It has started from the long road surrounded by whiteness, where you began your search under the undoing. It has become the forest of fallen leaves, where you found the stream of purest flows. It has become the plain of rainwater, where you arrived from the pond of deep confession. It has transformed into the purification under the rainstorm, which you later recovered upon the recollection of shards. More, and even more: with the rain ceased, comes the sunlight beyond the city of remembrance, where lay the most memorable sites out of your own. Yet it has crashed into the mere reproduction of the past, as you mindlessly constructed the monuments with the lack of creation, that the anger of arrogance has once again overwhelmed your thinking. All the cherished ones torn asunder, shattered into lost pieces, you became devoured by the rampaging anger. Glass, they were, elaborate, yet too fragile, unable to withstand the stab of the anger.

Not was I reminding you of your scar of the deep wound. In light of the vast anger, of the ignorance of beauty, what have you sensed? So be the elegant imaginations of the forest and plain. It has been told that even during the darkest times of yours, vibrancy well emerged – the key to prevent the continuing downfall of your own.

Sensed those, have I. Indeed, images have shown upon my mind. It was the image of the coming summer, the image of man without pain. It was the piece of memory from the far past, devoid of much stress and apprehension. Must has it signifies something.

Lighten your decision only during the full consciousness of your own. And once you have concentrated yourself, the third tale emerges out from your own. It becomes you to tell the tales.

Taleteller… much of a title not been heard for long. And yes… it has been a week before, when I was submerged in the rapture of my own creation, where my living mind was discarded into the dormant state – the dream. It has been the reemergence of the schizophrenia, expelling me into the long dream. And yes, the taleteller has been, both you and me. And yes, the memories from the past, from the farther past. Should it be a year after the meet with the Prophet, when I experienced the first failing of my own.

It has been foretold by the Prophet that the darkness befalls in winter, and that the upheaval occurs in summer. It was light that led me toward the truth within, within the ever-operating cycle of fates. It was by the end of that year when I underwent the very first downfall of mine – mindless, astray, bewildered. Nor would I find trace of recovering the state; I lived on. Then I saw lights, lights from the horizon. Then I sensed winds, winds of warmth and spring. More, more has it been. It has been the stories of the summer, the melodies of the summer. It was by the winds and the melodies, befell the rainstorm of redemption. That I stood underneath, purified; that the storm mitigated, leaving the clouds of less density, then the clearer sky. Then I realized I traveled afar, into the mountains of magnificence. Then I realized the summer has come. Relished, was I, recognizing the fall and the rise of mine.

So passed the very first redemption, a convention followed by years. What a lightful journey has it been.

Truly has it been. With the contrast of the present and the past, with the gleaming light of redemption, must you have a brighter understanding of your anger. That the anger has come from nowhere, and will recede to nowhere.

May it be. I have just had another meditation. It has been the willows standing by the rippled lake, shaking over the warm breeze of the summer.

Thus spoke the taleteller, aroused from his vast anger.