WORMS DO NOT READ.

[Moumins 378]

Spoiler

 

⸸.-─────────.-──–──-.─────────-.⸸

W O R M S  D O  N O T  R E A D

⊰ A  GUIDE  ON  HOW  TO  END ⊱

As penned by Ordained Eremun, 265 S.A

 

⎝༺─-.─–─.-─༻⎠

༺ I ༻

◎────────────⊰ P R E F A C E ⊱────────────◎

 

There laid SKIN of leather. CARRION of tree slept in the hand. Delicately transmuted into a DERMIS of book-cover, and INNARDS of  cold-pressed papers. The SPINE was stacked with words as its VERTEBRAE. So was the headstone engraved: THIS BOOK IS MADE OF DEAD THINGS. Its skin peeled away, and its pages were eviscerated of their words.

 

ALL ARE MADE OF DEAD THINGS. To be dead is to be many different things. Speak the word ‘death’ in these halls and this writing hand will transcribe the ten different words heard by the twenty listening ears. Death carries with it the rotting connotations of many different endings. For this reason, this writing hand has inked a writ for the reading eyes to parse. So that the many-faces of Death may be comprehended. So that the MANY LIES OF DEATH’S FINALITY may be unveiled.

 

A SHADOW SWELLS. It is known as guilt to the shape of ‘I’. It is known as Loving to the one aligned with the cow and the tree, the makers of the corpse in the holding hand. This writing hand asks the reading eye to not stray. To not cry with dread. For the listening ear will hear of the grotesque. For the squeamish will look away and hide. THESE DEAD THINGS LIVE AGAIN, resuscitated  by the hands that open their tomb. 

──●◎●──༺ ۝ ༻──●◎●──

 

O͕͇͎ N̢͇͉ E̟͜   M̪͕͔ I͚͓ L͙̟̪ L̠͔͜ I͇̼̙ O̞̝̘ N̪̻   D̘̙ I̪̝̫ E̢̞̫ D̺͚̙—༺ II ༻—M̟̝͉ A͙̠͍ K̙͔̘ E̡͇͙    T͖͔ H̙̟̫ I͖͙̞ S̻̟͙   S̟̼̦ O̡͕͖ U̡̟̻ N̡̪̝ D͖͔̼

◎────────────⊰ M Y T H O S ⊱────────────◎

 

──●◎●── A raven perched beside a moribund man. His hand lifted. A council of  fingers, all alike in frailty, flexed  toward the wise corvid. Cracked lips peeled apart. Bruising tongue meagerly whispered. What the moribund man had begged for is unknown, yet it is told that the watching corvid wept. Squawking, singing, it pronounced Dies Irae. A ruefully discordant sound which, when spat out of a black beak, told of a cycle. Lullabied to him so that his body may remember that which it had forgotten. Then did his balky gaze drift from the Profane World. ──●◎●──
	──●◎●── Once was One. There was nothing more. It was without now, or after, or any location at all. Everything was loved in the whole. IT danced in perpetuity. For without after, aging could not toll on the dancer’s heels. Then, with irreproachable reason, IT tripped. Fragmented. Mundus was born of ITs corpse. Trees grew from ITs rotting heels. Leaves became mulch. Animals and man traversed ITs hair. The young became old. Worms feasted on the mulch and the old fathered young. Cyclic. ──●◎●──
──●◎●── The moribund man opened his eyes. The song resonated within. He turned to the riverman, who guided him on from lands he had left. Spitting with his bruising tongue, the moribund man desperately tried to tell of this song, yet found no words would describe it. Cutting open his finger, he attempted to draw of it, but what he had seen, he did not see with his eyes.  ──●◎●──

.-──–──-.

⊰𒌐⊱

O’ RIVING

A CARDINAL MISUNDERSTANDING

──●◎●── First, the Mundus was without description. Present, nothing ends; present, nothing is created.   Words cleft Aos from Eos. Separated, comparison carried suffering.    Death was named by comparison. Named, flux was mistaken for finality.    Ends were imagined.  Indicted, the Mundus was judged from after.

──●◎●── First, Man did not judge now from after. Monadic, nothing ends; monadic, nothing is created.   Words cleft Man from Monad. Separated, comparison veiled Man.   Death was seen by Veiled Man. Seen, anticipation replaced presence.   Ends were believed. Isolated, Veiled Man concluded himself.

──●◎●──༺ ۝ ༻──●◎●──

 

.-─ ────── ────༺─༺ III ༻─༻──── ────── ─-.

 

.-─ ── ───⊰ D O C T R I N E ⊱─── ── ─-.

 

“All things are dead. And I am among them.”
-The An-Gho, Arbiter-

⎝─────༺ ۝ ༻─────⎠

 

The worrier, the Veiled Man who thrives in false agency, is by consequence threatened with the undoing of his conquest, his false freedoms. He imagines the moment his meaning will be forgotten. In anticipation, he begins to write his own conclusion. His death will be the end of opportunity. His death will invalidate his life. The leaves have decayed and this is a sad sight. The old no longer have their youth and this is a sad sight. The sun sets and this is a sad sight. Veiled Man looks at his flesh. Wrinkled.

 

The Veiled Man desperately carves his name into every surface he comes across. He may last longer for he may evade the last heartbeat. THE WORMS DO NOT READ. Grief has been given a body to live in. Loss is tangible. An end resolves a beginning. A resolution is reassuring. Even as it gasts. 

 

Death is feared as it stands in opposition.

.-──–──-. “Greater loves lesser; core loves periphery." -Eresar sin Nathemas- ༺─༻

Death does not oppose that which lives.

 

Learn of  Death by what it is not. It is not the end. The leaves have decayed; they will feed the worms. The old no longer have their youth; they will father the young. The sun sets; the wise will look east. All that is lost is the shape of ‘I’. 

.-──●◎●──༺ ۝ ༻──●◎●──-.

 

●⊱──────-..-──────⊰●

 

By awareness, and only by it, fear may diminish. Genuflection to the greater cycle. By accepting, by submitting to the intimate process of Fate, peace is found where shackles have nothing to bind onto. Whereupon the seeker finds that nothing ends. That in resisting finality, it is reinforced. That in accepting continuity, finality ceases.

 

ALL ARE MADE OF DEAD THINGS. Existence is sustained by its own flesh. A snake with its tail in its mouth. We are all cannibals. We gorge ourselves on that which came before. The wolf knows this, as does the tree and the mountain, which rises from the ground. This very tome is written across paper of trees, within leather of  cow. The Ash-Hall is lined with stone statues of forebearers. Names carved into stone. Visages depicting the dead. Rituals extend far into the night, beseeching these lost Alemdrom.

 

If Death is no end, why hold onto the dead?

 

Conditions are defined by consequence. This is Fate. By which it is comprehended that all are made of dead things. As much as an act evokes Fate, a memorial denotes a step in this ever-becoming process. Looking at these statues, a seeker may understand the life of Alemdrom; the history, which is key to understanding present conditions. It is true that man is both flame as he is vessel. Artist and art. Fragmented, he may die, and the shape of ‘I’ with him. Whole, he continues on. The seeker looks to these fragments, previous shapes, and understands that the being is a momentary state which existence continues through. We too will become ash and stone.

 

༺ IV ༻

◎────────⊰ T H E  M A N Y  F A C E S ⊱────────◎

 

.-──–──-.

⊰𒌐⊱

O’ DISINCARNATION

༺─༻

 

Hark! A light casts down. Matter is its shadow, the silhouette of existence. Mistake not appearance for nature. Flesh for fullness. Fickle forms will fade and return, seeming anew. The light flickers. The shadow does not lie. Flesh is the furthest extension of truth. Cling not onto these temporary images nor reject the shadow of existence.By awareness, fear will fade.

 

.-──–──-. ⊰𒌐⊱ O’ BLOOD LETTING ༺─༻ To sever an artery is to search for the heart. What leaves the wound is not the core.  The blacker the blood, the deeper the source. Through negation, the source exhibits a husk. A husk is a heart which has no blood.   It never ceased beating.   ⊰-.-.-.-⊱   Emptied canals are chased with red rain. Invigorating; the husk is filled with life.  Repainted by fresh blood.  Already spoiled. ⊰-.-.-.-⊱   Welcome your dying self and dagger the chest.

.-──–──-. ⊰𒌐⊱ O’ SACRIFICE ༺─༻ Dear Beloved Herald, You fear submerging into the Mont.  So why allow yourself sleep?   This has been your path thus far. Every battle was won by your hands. Words were credited to your name. Songs were sung in your voice. In these struggles of art, scholarship, and war, you found achievement. Bestowed onto you was a badge of markings. Uttered by the halls, ‘Ordained’. Peering over the ledge, looking into the fire, with your Prophet’s voice in your ear, holding your fulfilled wardren, you stagger back.    What is it you dread? Giving up agency. Being replaced. Irrelevance.    So, this writing hand queries what enters your mind as your face rests against your pillow.  Who wakes up?

 

.-──–──-.

⊰𒌐⊱

O’ REINCARNATION

༺─༻

 Worms feast on the mulch and the old father young. Cyclic.

 

In the life of the Veiled Man, he sequesters himself.

He neglects his origin. He searches for meaning and cannot find it.

As his body rots and his lungs collapse and the illiterate worms come to feast on his flesh, a gasp escapes long unused lips:

‘Ah’.

 

Meaning was gathered and shared. The worms feasted on the corpse. The blackbird ate the worm. The cat came for the bird. Worms found the cat, too. In dying, meaning was proffered. No longer did finite hands push away a truth that could not be written in crude words.

 

It is a terrible thing to kill an enemy. It is a necessary thing to kill the enemy. It was an inevitability.

Cyclic, may we all be returned through the daggering hand that speaks:
 

‘In loving’.

──●◎●──༺ ۝ ༻──●◎●──

.-───────────༺─༺ V ༻─༻───────────-.

 

◎────────────⊰ M E S S AG E S⊱────────────◎

 

The Second Lesson of the An-Gho “A man is nothing but his own disposition, the shadow that bore him.” “The man changes, the man dies, the man lives.”	The Revelations of the Kianene "The Absolute is thought to, oft as the collapse of desire and object, Thought and Being. None other than Death; the reduction of being to the plurality of beings - the becoming thing of existence."
Sagario, 43 Epistles “You were never born, and you will never die.”	The Nameless Son “Die before you die.”
Elijah the Familiar “A man should be no more afraid of death than he would be of the next chapter of his favorite book.”	Will of Telemachus “When my blackened ichor ceases to drip, and my resolve has stilled into nothing but remnants. Know that what has happened, was ordained. I fear naught what lays before me, or what comes after - for it is with FATE, that my steps will forge a path of gold, ever-branching”
Rites of Creation, Urendil "It matters not their position in life, whether they were a Seeker, Herald, or Ordained, for death is the greatest equalizer, and now they shall return to Ash."	The Three Names for Peace, Ulfric “Those who enter do not depart whole as before. Those who enter do not depart divided as they were.”

 

 Haiku on Finality, Alrei

"Never-ending flow

The earth’s cold grasp underneath

Flame returns Shadow"

 

⸸.-─────────.-──VI──-.─────────-.⸸

⊰ T E R M I N U S ⊱

 

──●◎●── ●༺I༻● NOTHING IS CREATED; NOTHING IS DESTROYED.  ⊰-.-.-.-⊱ WHAT DIES, WHEN NOTHING DOES, AND ALL THINGS ARE ALREADY DEAD?  ꩜ ──●◎●──

 

Writing & Formating:

 Moumins

Referenced authors:

 Jentos, Viros, Holyland, Xo3, ReverseNebula,Sonybut7,Psychra_notte, Security_
Consultation:

 Celestial Bleh, Karim, Sonybut7, Holyland

[Cheese 8883]

Spoiler

Your formatting is divine

 

[wardyn 159]

In the rare spare moments free of the pendulum of drudgery and derangement, the writings provide some relief. Two reading eyes pore over the pages, latching onto every word.  

[psychra_notte 618]

Spoiler

A BANGER POST!! ÚRENDIL IS PROUD!!

 

[Celestial_Bleh 224]

Two, violet eyes brushed over the worn, journal cover. The eyes had not always been his. The ones that came before had long since rotted. The mali'ker noted that no embellishment had been added to the edges of the paper. No refinement had seemingly been added at all. They were coarse and jagged. The book had no title to greet him. 

 

But there was skin and there was muscle and there was bone. He was astounded to find marrow and the careful lattice of veins. It breathed. It died. It dared. 

 

It sparked. Whilst not even enchanted tomes could provoke such a thing. 

 

There came a click of a tongue. A reluctant admittance. He would not mind more of such corpses. 

Edited January 14 by Anonymous_Rando