Poemander

Carl was a special kid, as they would say nowadays, but back then some classmates simply called him retard. We can't claim to know this detail, however, since we are rarely concerned with who said what, and so did Carl. He used to sit quietly submerged in his own thoughts watching another Carl playing with the children. He would vividly imagine things that didn't necessary exist, at least as it seemed to others. Nevertheless, Carl had invented his own language that he could use to write messages and exchange them with the wooden doll he hid up in the attic. He didn't know yet that this doll was called Tjuranga. Fair enough, we thought, why concern yourself with names if you know what you are faced with? So be it, we read those messages and this made him feel at peace.

One day Carl waited for the train walking unhurriedly on the edge of the platform. Express was approaching and the rail tracks began vibrating sending a resonance wave straight into Carl's diaphragm. He wobbled slightly along the edge closing his eyes in anticipation. Excruciating blow of a whistle and a sudden air vacuum. Carls's heart sank through the hole in the diaphragm with the shiver running up his spine, straight through his neck and... This debilitating sense of freedom. But, the last millisecond, another Carl took over cowardly refusing to make this one extra step... This was when we almost met. The express whizzed past, picking Carl up with the air current, whirling around and dropping him on the side of the platform barely alive and gasping for air.

No, Carl didn't change much since then. Walking home from work he could always send another Carl ahead and know immediately what's cooking while the other Carl lingered behind. This was fine. He could also schedule meetings before going to bed knowing well that another Carl will handle these appointments while he is asleep. He held no grudge, taking full responsibility for his own actions and thoughts. And if something didn't align, he could always put it down in writing, or make a drawing and analyze the phenomena from various angles.

This would have gone like this if not for Tjuranga, and one day Carl started to feel bewildered and, frankly, quite a bit frightened: this happened when he stumbled upon the unknown.

He felt there was something bigger than he can explain, imagine, consider. It even came to a point when Carl had to lock himself up in the room precluding any outside contact. This helped only a bit because something big was still looming over him, seeping through cracks and just waiting for the right moment to break in.

Carl had to draw a circle, a circle of mandala, fencing with words the remainder of his little island built on imaginations. These words he put into phrases, devotedly inscribing them inside his black books. And if you were to ever find and read these books you'll discover an elaborate maze of words and images scrupulously devised only to hold out the assail of the unknown. But don't you be fooled by the appearance, by the cover. Past the layers of symbols and intricate ornamental designs, path always led to the center. And this was where we stood.

This barricade won't hold: Carl knew it too well, as soon as he'll put down his pen the inevitable will happen. And it happened.

He closed his eyes, like many years ago, in anticipation of the inevitable. The doorbell rang frantically. The house shook, the eyes of the unknown glared from every little crevice. They stared right into Carl's mind, straight through his closed eyelids. Like before, Carl's heart sank and a shiver ran up his spine, straight up his neck and... The other Carl stood still, he was calm, no longer dare to intervene. He was already with us, he always was.

This is how the Red Book came about. Red, the sea of red engulfed the mystery of men, it came upon them crushing, sending the relentless waves upon their shores. The waters reached inceptial mandala, consuming row by row it's circuitous labyrinths.

The world hasn't changed since then, but life became different. What used to be right became wrong, what used to be wrong became virtuous and what used to be virtuous became laughable. Poor Carl, he thought he went mad when we approached him. He wouldn't believe, in fact, he couldn't believe anymore.

On his deathbed he was asked if he believes in god. No, said Tjuranga, he didn't have to. He didn't believe because he knew, because he met the unknown