In the beginning, Time passed unknown to the hearts of Earth’s creatures, but in the cauldron of the brain, it seethed hideously. The terminus of that long stretch called life remained far and away, though Thought threatened to stand it where all would see it and fear it. Death approached ineluctably, as ever and always; like a fisherman, it reeled hence its far-off catches, closer and closer, to the boat that would whisk them away. Yet without minds to contemplate endings, none among the animals and plants allowed that grim thought to possess them. Their lives remained whole, the perfect union of feeling and action. They leapt eagerly like billowing sails through the warmest breeze. When they drank from stilly pools, it was with the sense of deepest fulfillment. The sun shone upon their heads and upon their backs. Nothing was ever so simple or so life-giving.
In that time, questions existed not. The heart paved ways that the mind refused. So long as a creature made real the feelings of its heart, no fiber of being remained thereafter to be fashioned into thought. The realization of the heart was immediate and entirely consummate, leaving in its wake, no reminder of what had been. It was a well drowned to an impossible depth, then suddenly emptied to the barest nothingness.
It was a bird on the wing, in ecstasy flying to the speed of its heartbeat. Faster and faster, it flew, until it felt it must perish in a blaze. From the ether above, it plummeted like the soul returning to its body. And when, upon the Earth, it heaved its breast for dearest life, skyward-gazing, it felt a potency indescribable. Exhaustion forbade the bird to think. Nothing remained of the well that had moved its fearless descent. Nothing could remain for an experience so complete. The heaviness of its breath enlivened its heart not less than the plummet itself. Every action brought forth thankfulness, and giddiness.
Such was the way, now changed by the tyranny of Thought. Moments pass as seconds, and teem about our brains like needles steeped in poison. Our lives begin to resemble scenes of crime in which are scattered a slop of clues, the vestiges of experiences only partially lived. We become the parts unconnected. At night, we bother ourselves and scold the projects that Time wished we had completed. In the morning, we despair of the fullness of our schedules, and stir resentment in our hearts. Time is never enough to speed us on our ways to abstract ends. Fulfillment evades us effortlessly, yet on we press. Our feelings die even as thoughts persuade us of the rightness of our trajectories. We question all, and accept nothing. We accept not even ourselves. So truly is doubt the most terrible plague of all. How can it be that the facts as we write them can reveal something more about life than life itself? Do not we bury ourselves in knowledge even long before the Earth receives us withered and sere? Do not we die before our bodies, of that terrible disease emptiness? Wherefore that malady seemingly incurable?
We must return to simplicity. We must live unapologetically and in defiance of Thought.
