The Language of Ghat
There was no need to refine anymore, all balance, harmony, scope had been incorporated into this most perfect of creations. Any happy soul would have been enthralled to walk within this land's reaches, and it was in fact so blissful that it calmed even the most limited instance of one's imagination. Bright, echoing the sun with dew, reminiscent of the previous week's rain, were the cherry tree blossoming shortly before their pinnacle. They lined the way, organized perfectly in that reason had only stroked their placement, their's was a randomness quelled by order, an ordinarily uneasy balance that came to this place as if there were no other way. Thus was the tone of all surrounding environment, Astounding! What was astounding? A perfect harmony wravelled with, and zealously fulfilled by, a perfect dischord. This essence permeated every dimension, pallate, realm, significance of the space. The surrounding structures did not waiver from this blue-pring. Each had their own construction and design, rendering them as equals that short investigation quickly disproved. Their's had unquestionably differentiated from one neighbor to the next. Like their natural counterparts they cohabitated the region with, there was a perfect randomness that encapsulated them all in every aspect. Grass and minute fuana riddled the area, segmented against dense layers of sand, organized daily by whim of air and water.
To stand amongst this felt as if one were a perfect meber of the environment. So infintesimally small while rivaling the stature of giants. Connected and disconnected. This was the sun. This was the gravel. This was all. No disturbance could upset it, for any such agenda would be harmonious within the design of this 'all'. There was no name, it simply was, and was overwhelmingly placid. An experience that one, even in the shortest of lives, would be proclaiming their death to make attempts at creating it in their imaginations and never actually experiencing what it was. For the imagination was enjoyment's limitation, observation was not necessary and, consequently, imagination flourished while life became stagnate, purely enamored with the spark of notion created by this all.
And so everything I had created had become nothingness.
Morning had risen with me, and today's task was clear: this existence needed a focal point, a contrasting element that was as stark as it was meaningful. Centered in this realm I stood with brush in hand, the essence of life dabbled on my pallate as varying shades of the only primary color from which I would scribe the new art. All in one motion I was it and it was me, and in a fell swoop disturbed it all with the crash of the brush's bristle's incorporating the medium into every adjacent atom of the air. A firm series of strokes moving instantaneously in parallel form, repeating again and again, creating forms still comfortable with all around them. Absract, they were not the true art, but the housing of which it would then be integrated: fully dimensional exclamation points. They were the white-wash for the canvas, and their perfection was only surpassed by their surroundings. A pause, complete. As the brush fell down into the next blend of color, the bristles immediately saturated with an essence never before witnessed in the region, and certainly never exhibited by anything known prior. Whimsical only in demeanor, concreate in purpose, the following strokes tightly grouped together in a linear form began to exude the nature of their color and shape. Stroke after stroke after stroke they began to take shape--they were names... Adam Jacobs, Mary Salsworth, Samuel D'Arenti, Sandra, James, Tom, Sal... their lengths varied, but all were there in every combination available. As the medium adhered to the canvas, I realized exacly what my language had created, each letter dissipated with all that had been with it, and consequently there was void. Empty, nothingness was the definition that contrasted all around them. And so they were acknowledged as cursed, because all around the names could not understand these things of nothingness. How could anything be hamoniously perfect if there was nothing to perfect at all? Yet this metaphorical summary had indeed been the consummated reflection of it all, all that it had been allowed to become.
Perfection has indeed created destruction. Perception died on the first day, before the void was there. It had a chance now to be born anew to Willing, and with it, significance. That which was missing was, from the beginning, the missing existence that perfection had overlooked with reverent zeal. Harmony could grow to accept it, yet perfection could only be egged into further depths of confusion as to what had happened.
It was forced to remember what had become forgotten, it had to acknowledge that which was there and never there and would be there and would be gone.
To stand amongst this felt as if one were a perfect meber of the environment. So infintesimally small while rivaling the stature of giants. Connected and disconnected. This was the sun. This was the gravel. This was all. No disturbance could upset it, for any such agenda would be harmonious within the design of this 'all'. There was no name, it simply was, and was overwhelmingly placid. An experience that one, even in the shortest of lives, would be proclaiming their death to make attempts at creating it in their imaginations and never actually experiencing what it was. For the imagination was enjoyment's limitation, observation was not necessary and, consequently, imagination flourished while life became stagnate, purely enamored with the spark of notion created by this all.
And so everything I had created had become nothingness.
Morning had risen with me, and today's task was clear: this existence needed a focal point, a contrasting element that was as stark as it was meaningful. Centered in this realm I stood with brush in hand, the essence of life dabbled on my pallate as varying shades of the only primary color from which I would scribe the new art. All in one motion I was it and it was me, and in a fell swoop disturbed it all with the crash of the brush's bristle's incorporating the medium into every adjacent atom of the air. A firm series of strokes moving instantaneously in parallel form, repeating again and again, creating forms still comfortable with all around them. Absract, they were not the true art, but the housing of which it would then be integrated: fully dimensional exclamation points. They were the white-wash for the canvas, and their perfection was only surpassed by their surroundings. A pause, complete. As the brush fell down into the next blend of color, the bristles immediately saturated with an essence never before witnessed in the region, and certainly never exhibited by anything known prior. Whimsical only in demeanor, concreate in purpose, the following strokes tightly grouped together in a linear form began to exude the nature of their color and shape. Stroke after stroke after stroke they began to take shape--they were names... Adam Jacobs, Mary Salsworth, Samuel D'Arenti, Sandra, James, Tom, Sal... their lengths varied, but all were there in every combination available. As the medium adhered to the canvas, I realized exacly what my language had created, each letter dissipated with all that had been with it, and consequently there was void. Empty, nothingness was the definition that contrasted all around them. And so they were acknowledged as cursed, because all around the names could not understand these things of nothingness. How could anything be hamoniously perfect if there was nothing to perfect at all? Yet this metaphorical summary had indeed been the consummated reflection of it all, all that it had been allowed to become.
Perfection has indeed created destruction. Perception died on the first day, before the void was there. It had a chance now to be born anew to Willing, and with it, significance. That which was missing was, from the beginning, the missing existence that perfection had overlooked with reverent zeal. Harmony could grow to accept it, yet perfection could only be egged into further depths of confusion as to what had happened.
It was forced to remember what had become forgotten, it had to acknowledge that which was there and never there and would be there and would be gone.