Aleph

7 Gates to Essëa

“What eternity is to time, the Aleph is to space.” J. L. Borges.

Some call it luck and some others call it the source flow. But the truth lays way beneath those expressions or any other we can conjurate with our spoken languages.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” said the young boy, his voice steady yet uncertain. There was no reply. “You want me to quit,” he continued. “But I’ll stay.”

Yet the master did not speak, his mouth unmoving. He simply regarded the boy with a soft, knowing smile. And it was indeed funny for him, but he wouldn’t show.

Cold, rain, blazing sunlight on the mountaintop — how much could the young apprentice endure? No one could say.

For a time, the boy sat in silence, mimicking the master’s stillness. Yet, from time to time, an irrepressible need stirred within him to express something — anything. Sometimes it was a deep, loud breath. Then silence would return. Tears flowed, faint shivers coursed through him. At moments, unconscious murmurs escaped his lips, and even soft snores broke the still air.

It is hard, the silence, especially when you’ve been taught to wield words so lightly. The more words, the less truth. The more words, the lighter their meaning. We use words to shroud the essence of things, to explain or justify the…