If charitable love be so strong, oh then why do my heart ache so,
and why do children of men raise a cold and crossed dagger behind their ungrown back when they implore their parents something to buy?
If truth be so all-solving, then why find not men, a constant state of felicitous truthfulness---
but in life and death too, so constant the pretending reign of illusion and phantasmagorias?
oh, and thou speakest of meditations----of philosophical awakenings of souls…or settlements of sentiments to riverbed sediment…oh, thou speakest of an eternal conscious dream, and where each day and night feels like dawn, even if light flickers and night dies young…but why? why does the river from my mouth which is sourced from my heart and something deeper, could not choke its flow of wanton verbiage to snuff out the snuffed-out enlightenment thou hast proposed?
O woe, O heart…
For in the world there is joy…the world needs a stimulant like a river of iced, trickling honey mixed with pure water to stay alive…O woe, then it would ferment and get drunk…
O Woe, for the world needs joy. Otherwise, men would even forget the blissful happiness in sorrows.
My heart sinks deep into a basin--it is a crater.
There was no meteor from the darksome outer space, the river has been the one who finds itself thunders and lightning. The basin sinks and would not accept my heart, for outside the heart, there is only the eternal mud-torrent of emptiness.
O sorrow, O sorrow, O sorrow. For in the world there is emptiness, and it even needs emptiness to feel joy. For sorrow is boundless, for if emptiness is human's last prayer, my sorrow drowns it out with burning alcohol before it can be heard…and the river of my heart that is sorrow embodiment empties the emptiness into a shallow basin of red-stained and black mud. The reeds grow thereupon, and sometimes I tried to play music with the leaves of reeds. But even the notes were drowned out by the sound of that great Water-Fall.
O woe, for the world needs woe. And it needs woeful sorrow to stay alive and joyful… but outside my woes what do I have? an empty river? a crying river? Does the river ever cease at all in his business? Does the river cease the moment all the woes of the world go away? Then I thus must consign myself to eternal sorrow and intoxication of alcohol, if I wish to never cease being alive and miserably happy. In wine there is truth, perhaps. But do you need wine too, now? Next would you demand a feast---sumptuous feasting of cooked meat, seasoned herbs and pounded rice dango under a cherry blossom tree? Would you fain hearing some otherworldly music outside the sphere while under the pink-tinted canopy?---but always the lightning and thunders from the waterfall inside my heart drowns out and kills all the music in joy or sorrow, that sprung of Spring, and flows naturally into eternal daydreaming stillness under a bright Sun.
Yes…it is a Spring morning. the lark sings. how joyful; how sad. that birds need songs and feathers as their dainty sustenance to exist. but i assume if their appetites for music and escape from their woeful hearts are whetted, they would immediately drop dead happily from the sky, like it was told in the inferno stories by that old poet from Italy. And it would happen when the grass is not even green enough---when there was to be still frost and rime keeping it warm from the deadly chill of Spring. And there I should have found a wild pond besides the small hill of corpses of fallen and dead happy birds that pile up, whereof a indominable flood of reeds and weeds must grow… but such a misfortune for me, as the old Gaelic swineherd who knows how to make them sing whistling Irish elegies had already died and his bleached white bones buried in the knoll that can be seen some distance from the field where the pond is. Furthermore, there is no wind upon earth that could bring back the apostate gospels of the misfortunate dead, for that swineherd was a lone creature without a wife or children, and had lived everyday suffering from the righteousness and beauties of the world, as he abhorred the sounds bird make, felt sick when he beheld the horde of gentle lambs and ewes with their spotless white fleece, and he was disgusted each Spring by the outgrowing greenness of vegetation and emerging colourful phantasmagorias of forgotten flowers upon the hills and knolls of that isle---for he knows beneath each blade of grass and blossom of flower hides the corpse of dead ants and freshly disembodied parts of animals like that of dead birds from Spring sleep or white lamb bones thrown away after it was used for soup. There are many hills, knolls, and mountains in that isle… each and all of them are so wonderfully green, and blessed with fragrant flowers…imagine how many corpses are under those charming and eternal illusory visions…how much deadly killing joy beneath the sorrowful live and staid tapestries of the Spring deity's joyless and time-wrinkled august countenance? Ah…imagine each hill or knoll or mountain to be a mound…of not only one man or animal, but of thousands, of millions, of trillions, of as many numbers as how many peppery stars there are in the cosmic heavens. And to top off that symphony of most deadly ruinous and illness-bringing cosmic tragedy in Spring, imagine that encirclement of risen and rising flood of graves ambulate and dance--in a dizzying giddy gyrating circle around you----walking and hopping happily round, round, round, and a-round…
There is no escape from the cycles of life. The universe is all compassionate and all beneficial. Therefore it would not allow sorrows to exist. It must kill off sorrows to quell them. Therefore every action or reaction in the universe brings the pain and death of the sorrowful river that flows inside of the heart…
And at the end, I hear only silence…But I am no longer of the age to believe in fables the bards spoke of in silence. When I think of winds, I make up the image of a ship. If I were to become Peter Pan, I would be surely and sadly too afraid of strayed height from the roofs of buildings in human settlements, and would fly so low it shall be essentially not much different from walking or dancing upon the earth. Then I can never return to that Never-Never-cloud-nine-cuckoo-kangaroo land, as I will not be able to see up high where all the rays of the Sun are pointing at…I will avert my eyes…For I know neverland physically exists beyond a blackhole in fourth dimension. That is where all the golden rays of the Sun are pointing at…a black abyss.
Childhood needs must be sweet…to exist as a mode of thought, beyond a blackhole and outside knowable space-time.
The abyss is empty. I know it to be as I have journeyed there before as a child. Although at the end when Neverland expels me from its domains, I hear no longer the echoes of emptiness, but the echoing of my own silence. After all, in the whole universe only I am the silent one…That emptiness I imagined was perhaps an unfortunate delusion of youth. The universe is filled with noise.
All those who are not me make incomprehensible noise until I grow deaf and dumb and can hear no longer. And at the end when I left my cuckoo-kangaroo land I heard only my own silence.
The returning journey to the terra firma takes a lifetime. Or perhaps at the end no one actually grows up, except Peter Pan who one day, would leave the gravitational pulls of Neverland altogether to some place human should not have the privilege to know or think of setting foot upon… We are still returning from that world of everlasting innocence into a cruel and materialistic reality…Ah… we still have not grown up from ideals. And eventually instead of becoming realists and philosophers, we die of alcohol poisoning and feasting in the Spring, and grew silent or become silence itself….
Yet eventually I find that silence to be unbearable. In resolving to fill in that inexcusable silence without divine or humane sympathy through some goodness left in the universe, in place of musical notes, I simply started to weep, or scream, and cry aloud in my dream. It should have woken up a great deal of my caretakers and help-mates by my side. But for some reason none bothered to come and find out why there is a man turning mad and yelling like a mad man in a beautiful spring morning…
And indeed when I wake up, the Spring has come. Outside the window of the hospital drifted in the happy and joyful notes of Spring songbirds celebrating the wonders of a natural life. Those are autumn migratory birds.