THE OPEN BOOK

Sir,

As I rise from the image of death to reconnect, with a fresh impulse, with fluidic ideas. Drowsy tranquility and the dissipated illusions of the night paint the beautiful modesty of the morning with dappled shadows. My homebred virtues determine the avenging fate of the devilish sophistries of nature and time.

But before I step out, there’s a specific moment of focused attention in forest stillness.
And enigmatical silence, interrupted only by the monotonous flip of leaflets of a sacred book. Cryptic sayings about the mind of God, crystallised conclusions about the state of humanity.
The graphic sequence to salvation, metaphorical expressions about the doomsday of sinners. Their consequent retribution, for the diabolical passion of their earthly splendor. And the everlasting delight of believers, their devotional voices and honourable submission of their hearts in fulsome praise.

Their gradual adaptation to the heavenly ecstasies and the elusive divinities, these perfect souls will mingle with the angels in worship.
Bowing to Him on the throne glittering with the glow of His glory, perfected by His own hands with photons of emerald scintillations; all I’m saying this book contains embellished truths, properly propagated through generations. Men and women and the disillusioned youths of every population read about the fathomless power of God.

From this book ferocious foes, faltering tongues, who are, have been and yet to come, have and will deceive many, and many men will take it and perish in burning, but the woman and her remnant is cautioned against their far-reaching influences.

Everyday reality reminds me of the dire indispensable need to be thankful. Every moment of incompleteness explains the inevitable fact, not all made it out of the comatose state. From the breaking of dawn, the fresh impetus of the unstable grind adjoins, to the deepening dusk, with the groundless fear of nightfall and the faultless taste of its barren opportunities.

As I open and read a certain portion of the Holy Ghost inspired manuscript, my mind takes a swift ride to the forgotten graveyard, for spiritual awakening.
In the midst of  forbidding air and echoless silence like that of a deserted desert. The homeless winds open up the windows of my soul as eyes the color of bright stain glass, towards a tombstone beneath which laid a figure of a man about two millenia ago.

Dismantled  appearance, skinned by the tails and hooks of the whips, his hair confined in a spiny circumference, bearing the opulence with detail a crown cutting through flesh and blood, I remember the wood with frozen wonder, carved with disguised contempt.
I could see Him stretched out on the wood in my face, desperately enduring defiance without defence.

Honesty
 

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