The Daughters of the Night. Three in number, Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos. The spiner of fabric, the weaver and the cutter. The present, the past and the future.

I never had a choice and no one does. The daughters of the night are working, weaving, measuring and cutting. I, for one, believed that I had the power to overcome them and live eternally. I was wrong.

First, the spiner, Clotho. Unknown to me. A piece of fabric, weaved with notes. Her creation is my life, spanning from the first conception, if we allow ourselves to believe that there might be more than one, in one’s spiritual lifeline. There might be.

I set the goal of overcoming mortality. And the only way was to kill her. I started spanning my own thread, extended to seventeen minutes. It started, or should I say, it erupted from my heart. Salvation needs the Omega, but first things first. I needed to know her.

Defying the gods, a beautiful, elegant lady, eternally spinning the fates of men, with multidimensional orchestration, where simplicity became a burden, though I tend to conceive of thee as the expression of life over death. Sometimes it works at the benefit of the victim, other times it leaves him weak and stranded, waiting for the pendulum of time to stop.

Salvation needs the omega, but the omega never comes. Clotho is an overwhelming experience, with guitar melodies shifting from beauty to ugliness and separate voices plunging into my ears. And there, when I feel ready and worn out comes the uplifting melodies, giving me hope, giving me something not so strange. It feels familiar. It feels like home.

Oh yes. Death is our home. We came from there and there we shall go. But is it true? Is death absolute? Or is it just one of the many deaths in one’s life? I asked her, I begged her and she responded in a dead tongue: 

“Aporia il e denblaha. Aporia sah e denblama. Mas en vuj otrio vastenm. Mas en iftehn lodriann shir. Cktenddet vorsimen! Cktenddet vorsimen! Cktenddet vorsimen al! Cktenddet vorsimen peg al!”

One is Her nature, of three Her disguise. Three is Her nature, one Her Disguise. Salvation meets the Omega, but my time isn’t over yet. For what is breathing is dying and I won’t give up. I set the stage in the bottom bed of my heart and allowed the music take the toll on me. This is my art. This is my time. Not hers. A fate to adore. The fate of mine. Her promise is no more.

And there, as I stood like a warrior against forces unseen and incomprehensible, a sacred spring forced Her into my spine. With shapeless flames forming fire, my spine became a volcano and lava erupted. To this, in my last moments of consciousness, Parmenides words came to mind:

“Listen, and I will instruct thee—and thou, when thou hearest, shalt ponder—
What are the sole two paths of research that are open to thinking.
One path is: That Being doth be, and Non-Being is not:
This is the way of Conviction, for Truth follows hard in her footsteps.
Th’ other path is: That Being is not, and Non-Being must be;
This one, I tell thee in truth, is an all-incredible pathway.
For thou never canst know what is not (for none can conceive it),
Nor canst thou give it expression, for one thing are Thinking and Being.
...And to me ‘tis indifferent
Whence I begin, for thither again thou shalt find me returning.”

What shall become of me? Listen to this. Listen and accept it.

0 σχόλια:

Δημοσίευση σχολίου