The third tale.

All this writing, scribbling, babbling, stories, the characters sculpted in thousands of minds and their depressingly illogical, though ridiculously predictable, words and thoughts…

All this empty and pathetic chatter calling itself literature,

the book of life written for millennia for the good of millions of unknown descendants.

Meanwhile, literature shouldn’t fear, it should respond more than narrate, finally flow with the stream of truth rather than the sewers of physiology – simply cleanse. Otherwise, dear readers, it only takes away from you the most precious things: your time, your life.

They say writing requires patience. Why spend so much time telling stories about something that can’t even be a shadow of an answer to questions that lack the power to emerge, and when they do, they are rarely asked anymore?

Of course, there are many books like gems and pearls, within which you can easily pick out crystal-clear sentences or maxims opalescent with forgotten beauty.

And I’m not talking about entertainment literature (waffling was turned into a business a long time ago), but the one truly showcasing the light of the soul and the beauty of existence, aptly called beautiful.

So let’s get to the point. Where there is no wisdom

or philosophy, a simple script of questions may be the answer.

What is most important in the lives of most people? Happiness. As such, however one may name it and whatever measures apply,

and if possible – for free or for a dollar, for the soul, by word of mouth, and if not – then for kajillions.

What is most important for everyone? Conscious or often unconscious fear of death, non-existence, vast emptiness, and silence exists where even the most outstanding ego has no foothold and no support in anything. It is the place where words fail, and only the power of transforming emptiness into fullness and non-existence into existence plays its anthem. In the meantime, there are some faiths, incantations, and religions, words of solace engraved in stones or paper extensions of the non-extendable, tears shed over oneself (their volume is best seen at funerals and depends on the ratio of the deceased’s property to the debts left behind).

Since these are just „somewhat-sophist” tales, and I can’t even hold a candle, heck, I can’t hold anything to philosophy and literature heroes,

and living in a small room I know that I am everywhere and ego is nowhere, and that the chaotic world forces to live pedantically – I prioritize aphorisms over creating a story.

By the way, while formulating this thesis, I’ll allow myself to quote the following (*reference in footnotes)

„Paradise is at your center;

unless you find it there,

there is no way

to enter”

And let me just add:

Only the present cannot be deceived.