Apocrypha

I. They had on display vast cartographies of the intellect, vistas of the open realms of Knowledge, portals to the Divine threaded with errors, but I presume the idea is that with enough access to enough, one might indeed bring oneself closer to that Truth of truths, that central Law or Principle of all the Universe, proclaimed to none save the learned or the wise or those listening, with wide-open eyes, to that golden Egg at the very Heart of the Cosmos, throbbing with all Love, all Life, ripe for the picking in this life. The library was vaulted long ago. I presume, also, that it was burned to the floor by the gods, they having realized that it was too much for the petty scrawls of human progress to ever hope to unravel or rival, ever hope to match or break open to draw sustenance from the fluid Light at its Core, liquid Life, Love like a river that springs from the Sea, against all ties, all severances, to make it home to the Sky.

II. I am still elementary. I am not cutting or exact. What I mean to say is this, that like the Tablets of Bahá'u'lláh washed off in the Tigris after tearful Revelation; like the Commentaries of the Báb lost either to Time, or withheld thereby; like the Library of Alexandria; like every manuscript torn, charred or discarded; like every black book at the floor of the World, every tome of civilization engulfed by millennia, we have been bereft of sacred Knowledge or poor tries, in either case deprived of something either way worthwhile, but perhaps it wasn't time, not now nor yet, for our eyes to see, to read, glean from their letters the meaning of things.

10/07/2016 West Vancouver after Harmaeus Mora's Apocrypha

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada