Fragment Four
Into through Her door, this place familiar yet always foreign, for within is but shadow no light can cast, within the house of eight sides, the corners meet along these edge and the four side doors locked sleep unmoving, this house of flesh stirs deep. Herein nothing leaves, the nothingness lies. At the center one dead bearing the the faces and names of the self.
Rapture along the corners, the spirits of death speak, "Herein the last lines, oh sovereign-self, ruler of worlds, the walking of the nine, nine wills of the Wheel.
Measure, the nine ways as within and so without.
Where is that line, name it, point to its beginning and mark its ending. What of limitations, is this life and what is death, call upon the boundaries, set them to stone."
Get Ellautharios’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Be it the body?
To mud and ash they return, is the self but dirt?
What of the flesh?
Peel it way, what lays naked beneath?
The bones that remain?
Break them to powder and they scatter upon the wind of the corners, which is inherented this self?
What of blood?
Pour it all out onto the earth to whose name does the soil bear?
What of the mind?
Spoken thought into another, is what returns that of the self?
What of deeds?
Then behold, walking along after the the maker has ceased, those children of consequence ignorant of the hands of the father, one begetting another, who begat whom, then is this self but along that same lineage, ignorant of the first hands that fathered this one.
A sword within hand but no lines to cut, the measure but found on edge, bearing a name yet it wanders, where is the world ends and this one, the sovereign-self begin?
Look upon these four corners, be it womb or tomb? It matters not, within this house a door will close, and the secret work continues.
