I am neither this nor that.
My chorus is the splashes of waves
in the rays of the sun at dawn.
My lullaby is the chillness of the night sky.
Yet even though the moon is painted with jagged scars,
while our memory hides in the voids between the stars,
we can still trust the earth and our feet
to bring us to places where we are destined to go.
“Volume 73: Of Things You Will Forget,
or the Various Nonsense that Boils in My Head”
– Grivetre the Two-Sided
* * * * * * * * *
The pillars of the world stand on stories that have sprouted in memory. Along them flow delicate thoughts, like light rivers that nourish the oceans. Their waves meet rocky shores and break, merging with wind-driven dust, then settle on the surface, burying the past beneath them.
Thus, one leaves behind loneliness, attempting to fill and capture the infinite, sacrificing oneself and becoming completely lost—only to return to the source once again.
Someone saw this on the edges of invisible boundaries, where the beginning trembled behind the veil of what once was, while the end was just as hidden and seemed beyond reach.
There, the echo softly whispered through the azure haze in the languid calm of motionless halls, lulling the walls woven from cold stone and weightless lines. A keen ear could have traced this whisper to the steps of a swift shadow, which disturbed the ancient velvety silence.
That moment could hold no memory, and among many other things, the shadow did not remember its name. It only tried to keep up with one seeker—the same one who was casting this shadow in a rampant search for something unknown. The haste of his steps was fueled by a drive akin to what could be called bravery. Or perhaps it was folly? Desire, need, mystery? The seeker, like his shadow, could not pinpoint exactly what it was; yet he was here, which meant the reason was hidden somewhere close.
A dance of white flames flickered in the distance of this darkened path and freely shared its pure light. However, the shadow had little desire to approach it and stretched out in the opposite direction. The impenetrable clarity of the flames begged to grab onto everything that touched them. That scared the shadow greatly, yet it dared not leave the seeker. As he advanced, the darkness around him began to change. With each new step, the ancient layers of dust and moss on the walls crumbled, the reflections of the light became clearer, and the secrets of architecture blossomed in spirals.
Folly! Without a trace of doubt, it was folly. How deftly it (together with the unknown in its embrace) guided the light steps of the seeker through the enveloping twilight. Strangely, it did not seem that he even tried to resist it. Earlier observations and experiences had taught the seeker that everyone is a fool at first—but will he remain a fool? Perhaps that was the real question. Without any false riddles or obscure illusions…
The surrounding walls captured within their stones some eye-catching patterns shaped out of fine metals, each of which told a history of events long lost in oblivion. They flashed and slipped out of the seeker's sight, while his attention was too slow to capture them. The symbols ran past him, turning into vague strokes, resembling a whirlwind of colors under an artistic brush. Images of bygone days remained behind the seeker in the echoes of his footsteps and intertwined with disappearing elaborations of shapes.
In that thick-as-wax moment, another question arose, but this time the truth rang within it: why was he so thirsty? The seeker's throat tightened with desire, and something glimmered in his chest. He knew the solution was near. Yes, a suitable remedy was in the brilliance of this round shape before him, but it was empty—not a sip, nor a drop within it. Where did the whim of these demanding shackles come from? Why were they demanding deliverance…
