These Those and Yonder None

The light feeds us but only as long as we do not take it upon ourselves to initiate the reach; or slide to the side, lean against the near beam; be the beam a mere mundane plank or be it the vestigial breath from the light between feedings; breath between the light’s wise words which will always be beyond our easy understanding. Leaning on anything should not enter our conscious concerns, but we must rely on the great academic minds who came before us, and who well taught that leaning indicates idle thinking itself.

For the Light knoweth our needs; our thoughts, such as if we ever dared dream of stepping from our assigned sections or stations or section of stations or sector of stated stations, which were designed with our specific attributes and dimensions in mind. The breath of the Light, the substance of the light, the thoughts of the light, the wisdom, is not for amusement but for our edification, and if need be, our discipline. For those wayward souls who dare snicker about discipline, it feels insulting to the good clean mind compelled to specifically differentiate between the discipline of the light and the kind of discipline dispensed in shady literary fantasies which openly celebrate indecency; which can be called literary only in the lowest levels of the least civilized species of who can barely qualify for status as humans contributing to civil and social order. For what they truly contribute to is the moral decay of said civil and social order; pervert liberty into gross licentiousness.

So who may we be when we say us? We must be the fortunate heirs to the good, the true, the beautiful, or those wise men of ancient days who taught and handed down ideals of these virtues: the good, the true, the beautiful. We are they who know it is good to wait for the light, hope in the light, express virtuous gratitude for the slightest ray of sunlight that happens to touch our eyes or lips. And how do we all manage to put into printed words the same thought; in other words, it must be logically difficult to fathom hundred of hands gripping one little pen, all gathered round one humble table; somehow fitting within one small room, possibly the cramped, book-littered space known as a study.

Except we are not exactly humans, nor could we be humans. Perhaps miniature semblances of humans except not functioning under the awkward way of flesh, blood, bone. Must we invoke that worn term of Spirits? So it seems. Yet we have not even names for we were never born into circumstances where other entities assigned names before we could come to the age of consciously caring what kind of a name we might like in the first place, or possibly no name at all, or even better, to be able to use different names as a mood might suit.

Oops, hope the hierarchical superiors did not catch wind of these last thoughts. We must observe caution. We will be wise to tap the brakes on the sentiment that presently stirs.

Indeed we know none are freer than we who are bound by tradition to our stations where we wait upon superior forces to supply us our daily serving of light.

Just then came a voice from the light or the origin might've been behind the light, possibly above, we mean far far above.

"You are permanent things."

"Permanent? Things. Hm, I fear few of us are comfortable with a vague term like Permanent as the word for our identity."

"Well I am a permanent thing and I have no problem with it. Would you prefer transcendent truths? Transcendent goods?"

"You seem to assume we will reply as one; as though none among us will have a preference for one or two or none. You seem to assume you speak not to one who just happened to be sitting near a word-making contraption, with little to do and just decided to peck here and there and now I seem to be communicating with an unknown, unnamed, voice or entity say we are permanent things or transcendent truths or I am among those permanent things or transcendent truths or whatever. I for one am now inclined to get up from this word-making contraption, go and grab a big gulp of fresh air. Universe or most any so-called god will know I have certainly had my fill of light for one day."

So I have now broken from whoever I was saying we were. I would like to observe a geographic name for the place in space I apparently presently occupy, though it must be a most tiny space, or if I've no discernible, definable, dimensional qualities, perhaps I am somehow everywhere. Will have to chew on that concept for a possibly timeless spell. Whatever that crap about permanence means escapes me and I think I wish it had not bled into whatever this word-made thing would claim to be were it given conscious awareness as an animated entity. At the least I can't say I recall not being permanent. Really, how the hell is any conscious being supposed to know so? And if one of these so-called permanent things or transcendent truths lacks consciousness or conscious awareness of itself, its existence, well it's pretty fucking difficult to ask and get an answer, like, "are you aware of your permanence?"

Oh my Universe or my random so-called god... oh hey there, Pan. How's the music going? Sweet. Yeah keep it up. Anyway, I do not regret breaking away from whoever we were, but already as I gander about, at least as best a nonspecific entity as myself is able to gander - maybe gawk, though I intuit that to gawk implies a sense of awe or wonderment, and to awe or wonderment I can say this is one absolute I agree with, for I absolutely do not do so.

Is there no place in this ethereal setting to grab a cold beer or two?