Rashka's Voyage

"No. I haven't been acting correctly. I can't hardly recognize myself sometimes when I'm greased. I go on journeys out of my body and look at my red hands and my mean face and I wonder about that man who's gone so wrong... I've been becoming a problem to myself."

Gazing upwards at the ceiling of the damp, dreary walls of his five-by-five storage room located opposite the Sugunami Ward Office, Rashka contemplated on the transient nature of this and it, but more so with it. The cheap coating of crown paint had deteriorated from its initial base of standard white into a mopish parchment. Rashka gazed inwards underneath the veneer of its slowly wearing strips into a grey abyss while simultaneously contemplating the wider space in its stagnation. Abstract thought as such often absorbed him, paralyzing him into a ruminative daze. Such is the human condition, to take the chain of events of a leafs departure from a tree toward the undergrowth as a reflection of the ephemeral order of existence.

Rashka: As I lay here, in this, here and now, it's evident that my greatest ally and adversary is time. Incapable of truly cementing or appreciating myself in the past, present, or future but all the same, hypnotized by all.

Inner Mwigizaji: Simply lie here and continue to do so for all eternity. Engage and disengage from all earthly things, and begin your Sokushinbutsu.

Rashka: What else could my condition be? I've been in practice since the recognition of my own consciousness. I see the changing of landscapes and countenances; what at initial conception was pure becomes distorted. To fight it would only incur moral casualty.

Inner Mamlaka: What happened to you? What happened to the gilded age of virility and machismo that once illuminated you? What happened to valor and championship make? You used to be someone, a person with aspirations and the resolve to follow through. So far from your path that I barely see the promise of mediocrity.

Rashka: These machinations that you ask of no longer sprout here. I abandoned such workings of being and will soon abandon this very line of speech. I followed false idols and themes for the entirety of my life. I abided and abide till this very instant and this and this and continue till I cease. I can't bear to build myself to false singularities of a sonata when in reality, I've always just been a small cog grade 8 triangle player in a philharmonic orchestra. I drown myself and others in vanity and verbose dialogue. I say one thing but truly act the other. I am, and we are in this cesspool; I'm no more free from hypocrisies or disillusionment as a fly is to shit.

Inner Huruma: Share this, but why say this? Why must you be transfixed in this state of despair and downward trajectory? You stigmatize exhibit A from the past as a point of mortification. I've heard you, seen you, felt you, and will continue to do so. But this is and isn't you. You're far more than the sum of the second of a moment or sensation. You are you in all its damnation, peculiarity, and abhorrence, you see? Ingratiate your past with pride; you carry a gorgeous blend of stupor and splendor.

Rashka: ... I can't help but agree. But what use is it? I still find myself unskilled to relay and transmit this warmth in me. I've embarked countless times on this attempt of transparency, to be inwards and outwards simultaneously. These internal workings remain to me a clandestine operation. I'm unable to overcome this deafening speechlessness that occupies my space for love, a hoarse translation of my innermost works. Will I pass from this to there as I am? Mute, deaf, blind, and impotent.

Inner Hiari: You fail to see the wonder in this torment. You fail to admire the primeval grunt. You've failed to draw on totality. "That which is killing us will help you, finally, to see. And see clearly, friend. See and hear". If these experiences didn't hurt to overwhelm us, where would we have found the most profound moments in life if they all made sense? We only come to value joy when we're sad, an overcast from a bright sun, and life from death. How could you truly appreciate life in its absurdity if you weren't troubled? It's a seesaw you're glued to, consistently emerging from one depth and plummeting downwards from a new height, so embrace this all with the stride of a year and account for these flash-blinked moments. To loathe one juncture of a year would be to condemn the sum of your lifetime.

He returned. Back on the same damp mattress, Rashka then took a deep sigh of relief. What were a few minutes felt like an eternity. He emerged out of his astral journey and sat slightly slouched on the edge of the depression of his hunched bed as it carried his kilo-ton of thoughts. He gazed upwards and through the single framed window in his room. Contemplating further into the cloudy overcast of the sky, as the sunbeams blazed through the clouds and peered back at him through the window panels of the room, caressing the millions of hair follicles across his body. In the gentle warmth of the sun's rays, a smile gradually stretched itself across his face.


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Sister Calderón:

There is nothing to be afraid of. Take a gamble that love exists, and do a loving act.