Dont Speak Against The Sun; chapters 1-2

Its difficult to tell a story that has been told many times before, though the whole story has not been told and the rest of it comes in bits and pieces, shrouded and hidden by the illusions of the physical and material. It makes it equally as ambitious when the story you need to tell is hard to believe. But, this story, like any other, holds grains of truth. Every story has to be told, and this tale is no exception.

This story, like most good stories, starts in the middle. We’re all in the middle. Medias Res.

Yesterday always stays the day before and tomorrow never comes.

Now, there is nothing that has existed, or has been thought of, that is no longer here with us. In fact most of the time, everything is happening right this very second. Life is a never-ending cycle, samsara, some call it. A wondrous and vicious wheel. Everything in time dies, but not truly; it gets used again. Somehow, someway. There is no absolute death; there is no absolute birth, just a change in form.  We are all a tiny part of eternity. We all have the power. We are divine.

This is a story of a boy, becoming a man; a new story of old truths. This is a story of nirvana in a world of chaos, in a world where the past, present, and future are all one, and there is no end since there was never a direct beginning.

Our part of the story takes place over the course of a year, starting in the Seventh Month. The beginnings of our story are lost in time and myth and only the gods of old know how this all took place. Our story takes place in the Blue Ridge Mountains, mountains that were said to have once been taller than the Himalayas; an arcadia lost in time, a land of eternal youth, where myth and legend have not yet died, and myth and reality collide. Where the whispers and prayers of the Cherokee souls can be heard on the coattails of the western winds, which are so cold you can feel it in your very bones. Where the souls of old and the souls of the new are one. Where the songs of Pan can be heard echoing off the stone, and the lonely zephyr wind howls like a lone wolf who wants to be reunited with his moon. Where the mist is so thick you can taste it, and the trees whisper soft words among the babbling of brooks and streams. Where an eighteen-year-old boy will meet the person who will change his life forever, and will discover her in the most unexpected place. Know this. Never take anything at face value... everything is always more than it originally seems.

Do not be deceived; this is no fairy tale

::July::

Seth Lawrence Emerson sat in an old mountain home, gazing out the foggy paned bay window, in the corner of an old, dark dingy room, holding a dry empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand, and his scraggly chin rested on the other, elbow resting on his knee.  The bottle, which had been cold minutes before, was now lukewarm in his calloused hands.

He no longer felt the old fire at the back of his throat, as he tipped the last full swig back. He laughed a sad laugh to himself. He turned back and looked out the window again. Raindrops poured down from the sky, pelting the ground evenly; their splashing on the leaves of the trees making a soft rushing sound, almost like a light tapping of a cymbal, the jazz brush on a soothing snare drum over and over again, letting up with as much ease as it started. They swirled across the windowpane from the strong winds. It was a damp, muggy summer evening, around dusk just as the red sun finished setting over the green hills, which were now shades of blue in purple in the dying orange light, and the yellow crescent moon awaited to unveil her beautiful visage, reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat’s smile. A stampede of clouds raced across the sky; the fog continued to slowly roll in, like the dust of a passing herd on the plains. The smells of damp grass, ground and wood wafted on the nostrils of the people in the countryside, reminding him that autumn was approaching.

              The room in which he was sitting in was his room...where he had grown up, for the most part. Where countless life realizations had taken place, most of which worried him. Some of these were common, such as a fear of Death. Others were not so common. He often found himself wondering about the wealth of knowledge that was lost in the burning of the ancient Library of Alexandria, or if they were aliens and what kind of energy they used to transport themselves. He thought, “They would be disappointed if they knew we were killing each other over oil”.