The Inspiring Image, taken by me.
And Who Are You...
by Vaughn R. Demont
“Take a breath. Step forward.
Take a breath. Close your eyes.
There’s a story here, if you’re willing to listen.”
There were swaths, of grays, of rhythms of lapping water, of silenced bustles of branches and twigs and wind, of near symmetry and fading light. It told portents of someone’s chosen moment, not a moment chosen by him, which is what would console him in the coming hours after he’d failed. In this moment, it was his choice, as a matter of his will. No, his Will. The delineation was vital, to separate the mundane from the wonderous. Aleister Crowley had accomplished this with adding a simple k, and today, he would continue that example.
Of this, he was certain.
Beyond the silhouettes lay the mist. It was not fog, that was vital. Fog was commonplace, a nuisance, an annoyance to conveyances and ruiner and concealing of the beauty that lay about all. Mist still retained the silvers of wonder, of legend, of myth, of obfuscating the mysterious and passages and gates to realms beyond, paths from this world to another. To better.
The sign reading “Do Not Enter” was necessary, a test. Barriers were always involved in a story such as this. The chain strung between the two posts beyond was further proof. It mattered not that they could be stepped over or past, a symbolic barrier was just as potent as a physical one. More so, in fact, as symbols were powerful enablers and obstacles to the Will, and to truly travel beyond, he would have to transcend powerful barriers.
Of this, he was certain.
“Take a breath. Step forward.”
His body complied, as expected of a vessel of his Will. That such a complicated vessel could be directed by his Will, with but a thought, only served to buttress his certainty that today was a marked day, a portentous day. It was a day he would leave concerns behind and venture into a world beyond this one, to cast off the shackles of a world that refused brilliance, enlightenment, and wonder to wallow in its cherished mediocrity. He would begin his journey on this day, take the steps to transition into a grander, more wonderous plane of existence as purported by his destiny.
Of this, he was certain.
The mist need not be seen at his feet as he cross the bridge, hewn and woven from butchered life to mark the path forward. It was a necessary thing, there were prices and the life of countless trees, living entities, had been taken, offered in his stake, in his name as he Willed it. He stepped past machinery whose purpose was unknown, but it was certain that, this futile, mechanical monstrosity was one of many methods employed by the mediocre to enforce their banal paradigm on the world and strip it of any vestiges of wonder that remained. He spat on it, sparing it a curse not because he could not formulate a vile concoction to adequately describe his disdain and derision for the foul metal thing, but because it was not worthy of such a curse from him, and would have to accept his expulsion of saliva and phlegm to be marked by his displeasure.
As he pressed on toward his destiny, he considered what would be waiting for him on the other side of the mist, what sort of beings existed there, if he would cast aside this mortal shell to ascend to the true expression of Will that would be one of such beauty inexplicable that he wept at the mere thought of it.
It would be successful, of that there was no doubt or question. He had blended Judaic mathematics, herbal tinctures, colored candles inscribed by runes and kanji, chanted rhythms and Teutonic esoterica that had never been attempted by those before him, and all of the methods only spoke to his rightness and fortified the certainty of his wisdom on the matter. Who else could have seen this chosen moment and employed such Will? It would lead him from this world to another, but the legacy he would leave behind, as a gift, would be honored. Cherished. Envied.
Of this, he was certain.
There was symmetry now, that was not encouraging, it was proving of his wisdom. His Will had found this place, at this time, with such perfect symmetry. The roof of the gazebo was overhead now, gates between him and the mist beyond the vacant gap between two posts. The final barrier, but he feared not. His certainty, his Will provided all that was needed.
“Take a breath.”
The world was but a few feet away.
“Close your eyes.”
He could swear he could hear the music of the spheres, of the world that waited beyond for him to cross the barrier. No, he did hear it. This, by declaration of his Will, he knew. And by knowing, he named it with words so ethereal and beautiful and perfect that they were beyond the wretched mediocrity of mere human understanding, but he was certain that the name was given in that moment, whether he consciously thought it or not. His Will decreed it, and thus is was so. And by naming it, so it was controlled, under the yoke of his Will to weave the bridge between this world to leave behind for the next, for the glories and laurels that awaited him, that would attest to his worthiness and wisdom.
“And step forward.”
His eyes remained shut. His Will needed not to convince anyone of his certainty, not even himself. He walked forward into the next world with open arms and smile on his lips that was good. Wise. Righteous.
Later on, changed into dry clothes, he decided that the moment was chosen, but not for him, but perhaps adding string theory to his calculations and incantations would bring success next time. A smirk crossed his face. If only everyone could have his wisdom, if not for their own mediocrity.