Today the salty breeze sweeps through my window from the west. It’s bitter and sharp. The walls of my room are white painted daub. There is a small bed in the corner covered in a beautiful tapestry woven in deep greens, blues, and reds. Other than this small luxury, my room is rather austere: bare walls and a rough floor with no rug to protect my feet from the biting cold. But there's a certain beauty in its simplicity and silence. When I gaze out my window on a cloudless day I feel grateful for the clean lines and lack of clutter. But on mornings such as these I dream of a cozy fireplace, the rich aroma of stew or even a painting or two to soften the stark contrast of sea and stone. I live in a tower, a tower at the end of the world, or so it seems. A corner cliff. When I look out my window I see nothing but sea.
I spin down a windowless set of stairs growing steadily dizzier as I near the bottom. When I reach the floor, the smell of food touches my nostrils. But instead of familiar and comforting it is strange and foreign, laden with heady spices and the tart smell of citrus. Already a few of my fellow students sit absorbed in idle discussion, the hushed tones of their gentle voices further blur reality. There is an unspoken respect for the silence of this place, the sharpness.
“Metar, what happens when the sun meets the sea?”
“The water extinguishes its flame.”
“But then how is it re-lit?”
“On the other side there is an ocean of fire.”
“How does the sun move from one side to another?”
“It’s pulled by... it’s pulled by...”
Metar is an idiot. He can’t justify his claim if he doesn't truly believe it. I guess we all have a certain amount of idiocy in that sense. But Metar is completely convinced of his own preordained understanding.
Breakfast is porridge as always. Sweetened with molasses and adra fruit, it tastes like spring rain and honey, but not without a good dose of grit. The porridge is brought by servants dressed in dull white, they move so quietly it is easy to forget they are there. Edra Mael, our place of study is nearly devoid of comfort, color, labor, or anything that would connect us to the world outside. We have been told that it is easier to reflect upon something if one is removed from it. They are careful not to completely isolate us in a barren universe with only our thoughts for company, lest we lose ourselves. There are little sparks, glimmers here and there. The food for one is never vacant of flavor, it is delicious to the point of absurdity, but instead of bringing me comfort, it further estranges me from my past. At home I could see those who had their hands in the dirt. I knew where my food came from; I could taste every drop of sunshine and sweat. Here it is delicious, but just another unanswered question.
Next to me sits Jeieme; he is quiet with black hair that never seems to sit straight and dark brooding eyes that draw an unsettling contrast to his exceptionally pale face. His movements are stiff and diligently proper. I remember when he used to crack the occasional mild mannered joke, but now his expression is so solemn he looks to be on the verge of tears. This place imbues us with melancholy; it’s steeped in it. Whitewashed walls all but surrounded by a blue swath of sea. The hushed voices of those that think carefully about each word they say. It’s sweet, but also bitter like the aftertaste of flowers. A sharpness made from too many dulled edges.
Today the stone table is cold against my hands and there is a dampness that speaks of last night's rain. The air is heavy with petrichor and reverent silence. Twenty minds lost in the infinite possibilities of a blank sheet of paper, an infinite amount of potential answers. But as our questions are groundless, rooted in nothing but the audacity of our own minds, we will never grasp anything more tangible then the ephemeral fruits of boundless rhetoric. I am living among ghosts, fleeting shadows of the quiet studious scratch of pens, lost because they turned god into a concept, blinded not by faith, but by a lack of it.
Today, like most days here at the end of the world, culminates in astounding heat. After the fog burns off, there is nothing left but the sun. The clouds are just a facade. They hide the brutality for a few brief hours in the morning, hours when our melancholy drowns our headaches. And sometimes, cool and clean, we can reflect upon the beauty of a cloudless sky.
This place, this singular line of thought, if I am to live in a desert at least let me experience the physical reality: the burning sands, boundless stars with their infinite configuration of stories, and yes people because even in a real desert humans find a way to survive.
They are stone faced, probably thinking that they knew one of their subjects wouldn't be able to handle the rigors of their academic experiment. But my heart is light. In my mind, idiocy replaces rigors.
I am bound by a commitment I made when I enrolled as a student of Edra Mael. Before I leave I am required to submit a verdict: god or no god. I choose god; what's more vague than god?
I spin down a windowless set of stairs growing steadily dizzier as I near the bottom. When I reach the floor, the smell of food touches my nostrils. But instead of familiar and comforting it is strange and foreign, laden with heady spices and the tart smell of citrus. Already a few of my fellow students sit absorbed in idle discussion, the hushed tones of their gentle voices further blur reality. There is an unspoken respect for the silence of this place, the sharpness.
“Metar, what happens when the sun meets the sea?”
“The water extinguishes its flame.”
“But then how is it re-lit?”
“On the other side there is an ocean of fire.”
“How does the sun move from one side to another?”
“It’s pulled by... it’s pulled by...”
Metar is an idiot. He can’t justify his claim if he doesn't truly believe it. I guess we all have a certain amount of idiocy in that sense. But Metar is completely convinced of his own preordained understanding.
Breakfast is porridge as always. Sweetened with molasses and adra fruit, it tastes like spring rain and honey, but not without a good dose of grit. The porridge is brought by servants dressed in dull white, they move so quietly it is easy to forget they are there. Edra Mael, our place of study is nearly devoid of comfort, color, labor, or anything that would connect us to the world outside. We have been told that it is easier to reflect upon something if one is removed from it. They are careful not to completely isolate us in a barren universe with only our thoughts for company, lest we lose ourselves. There are little sparks, glimmers here and there. The food for one is never vacant of flavor, it is delicious to the point of absurdity, but instead of bringing me comfort, it further estranges me from my past. At home I could see those who had their hands in the dirt. I knew where my food came from; I could taste every drop of sunshine and sweat. Here it is delicious, but just another unanswered question.
Next to me sits Jeieme; he is quiet with black hair that never seems to sit straight and dark brooding eyes that draw an unsettling contrast to his exceptionally pale face. His movements are stiff and diligently proper. I remember when he used to crack the occasional mild mannered joke, but now his expression is so solemn he looks to be on the verge of tears. This place imbues us with melancholy; it’s steeped in it. Whitewashed walls all but surrounded by a blue swath of sea. The hushed voices of those that think carefully about each word they say. It’s sweet, but also bitter like the aftertaste of flowers. A sharpness made from too many dulled edges.
Today the stone table is cold against my hands and there is a dampness that speaks of last night's rain. The air is heavy with petrichor and reverent silence. Twenty minds lost in the infinite possibilities of a blank sheet of paper, an infinite amount of potential answers. But as our questions are groundless, rooted in nothing but the audacity of our own minds, we will never grasp anything more tangible then the ephemeral fruits of boundless rhetoric. I am living among ghosts, fleeting shadows of the quiet studious scratch of pens, lost because they turned god into a concept, blinded not by faith, but by a lack of it.
Today, like most days here at the end of the world, culminates in astounding heat. After the fog burns off, there is nothing left but the sun. The clouds are just a facade. They hide the brutality for a few brief hours in the morning, hours when our melancholy drowns our headaches. And sometimes, cool and clean, we can reflect upon the beauty of a cloudless sky.
This place, this singular line of thought, if I am to live in a desert at least let me experience the physical reality: the burning sands, boundless stars with their infinite configuration of stories, and yes people because even in a real desert humans find a way to survive.
They are stone faced, probably thinking that they knew one of their subjects wouldn't be able to handle the rigors of their academic experiment. But my heart is light. In my mind, idiocy replaces rigors.
I am bound by a commitment I made when I enrolled as a student of Edra Mael. Before I leave I am required to submit a verdict: god or no god. I choose god; what's more vague than god?
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