It is the reason why
in all the fairy tales
it is the fools that find their way...
It is where every day ends
and a fairy tale begins...
Or just simply
OR...
Caspar, April 11th, 1999
Inattentive,
imbedded in his thoughts,
his mind so full,
his mind so very full,
his mind so very full of oh so many so important things
his mind so very full of oh so many so important things and always in a haste,
and always in a haste to finish up,
he rushed from one face to the next.
He thought he cared for others anyway.
He thought this was enough.
He meant to soothe them and to kindle hope,
but didn't realize how week he was.
For he had not learned that barren was a tree, and can't yield fruits,
until its roots are living deep in earth
For he had not learned a tree cannot successfully support,
until its roots are living deep in earth.
For he had not learned a tree could not protect,
until its roots are living deep in earth.
So he started to chase for errors but couldn't get the truth.
So he started to talk, but couldn't listen anymore.
So he started to think and thereby lost his heart.
So he lost his melody of life.
So he stopped floating in the light.
So his barren root turned into stone
and broke.
The smile of flowers was no longer known to him.
From mountains chant he beheld nothing but the howling wind.
In his mind the peace of death and decay, he started out on his lonely way.
As there was no pull from outside any more
and as no inside called him any more
he reached the shores of Otherland.
As there was no manager would drill him any more
and as no wife would thrill him any more
he reached the shores of Otherland.
As there was no belief in dogma any more
and as there was no faith in tips of others any more
he reached the shores of Otherland.
But Otherland is neither here nor there;
Otherland, if found, is everywhere.
And nothing is near and nothing is far
in Otherland's timeless shore.
There are no companions but none is alone
in Otherland's timeless shore.
Stopping ones search
and starting to comprehend
is all
very wise
and this
marks out
a fool.
In Otherland everybody's face
is showing its owner's heart's traits.
And in Otherland each and every heart
is a well.
The inhabitants of Otherland do not know any thirst,
because they are drinking from the depth of their self.
Some people are very tiny, because the useless and superficial flight of their
thoughts and wishes had cut down their legs.
They can hardly make out anything beyond the ceilings of their own well and their
knowledge of themselves is even less. In their enormous shortsightedness they
are unable to perceive its brilliant and sparkling waters and this is the reason
why they think their own well is all dry. But there is a hidden secret within
the walls of each and every well. For these walls are of the exact size of the
thoughts and wishes of their owner and the clear surface can only be found at
the exact depth of their owner's mind. So everybody appears to be in his own way
on his very search for the water of life.
As there is not the least urge that the sum of the thoughts and wishes of one
person equals that of another it occurs from time to time that one who assumes
his own well is dry looks for water in some other person's realm and even succeeds,
if that well's ceiling and depth are lower than his. Whenever this happens something
absolutely wonderful and unique takes place and reminds the inhabitants of otherland
ever and again of the importance of holding their tongue in order not to yell
out the secret of the nature of their truth:
The water level of the spender rises as long as he is willing to give and as long
as his wishes do not increase. But, as soon as he is becoming proud of it, his
well's wall is growing along with the seizure of his ego. From that very moment
all his attempts for getting a higher prize for selling his waters of life will
increase the gap from the water's refulgent surface to the top of the wall of
his well.
But for those who want to increase the opening of their heart without thinking
of themselves it may come true that the water will even raise above the limit
of their well and eventually will become a sea of unassumable depth and totally
unknown size.
Not seldomly the sons of the Ocean of Sand and Dryness, whom I haven't even mentioned
yet, feel threatened by such a see of life and fear for their very existence.
The tale goes that those sons of the desert make their living from the dryness
of the hearts of others. It is hard to detect them among the children of man and
whoever depicts them must hold his tongue, or he will be deprived of his visa
for this world and will loose his opportunity to serve.
Now, whenever the sons of the desert make out the indicating signs of the birth
of such a see of the water of life, they are sending out their messengers.
They are all great masters of deceit and can hardly be depicted from the dust
of their surroundings. They can be discovered only by means of the eye of one's
own heart and they are reading the thoughts of everybody as if it were an open
book. The power of those messengers of decay is immense and they are sowing discord
into the hearts of the children of this world to turn the already swallowed water
of life back into rotting mud by means of their envy and ill will. And when their
time has come they light the gas of molder by means of the flame of their glowing
anger to turn the almost sane back into servants of their ever burning hatred.
At such places of fight much is more evident than elsewhere. Many of the wounded
ones turn into seas themselves in such a situation. Whoever turned into a sea
is a King in Otherland and each drop of all the blood he lost in fight will be
a shining jewel shaped in brilliant gold to beautify his crown of stars.
There is no time in Otherland
and there is no number of its kings and servants.
But behold,
long and tedious is the way to Otherland,
because it is you.
The wits of your vanity
are the thorns that shred your clothes.
Your wishes are the cliffs to climb.
Your sorrows fears and needs are the stones and the splinters,
on treading which your feet will bleed.
And the worlds of your imagination
are the countries to be left behind.
Once your old soul no longer interrupts its cheers,
Every flower and mountain its secret song reveals.
Then finally all time will leave you
and the hands of the sons of life will ever reach you.
Calm and knowing will you be
and no longer alone.
author: Kilian Sternad
...and one million thanks to my Scorpio Friend Sarah Marie Klee for spellchecking this in the early morning hours of May 18th, 1999.