Lost, thirst-maddened, flyblown and with feet burnt black, the Seeker wondered the endless desert. Tongue grotesquely swollen, he climbed the highest mountain. Eyes horribly bulging, he swam the deepest sea. For untold aeons he searched and looked hither and thither, high and low... driven by the primeval, urgent, elemental urge to Seek. Seek what? Doesn’t matter. Shaddup.
Lost, the Seeker sought.
Out of time, outside of time encountered he an elderly guru of dubious provenance, indeterminate gender and reproachable demeanour. Gnarled and nut-brown ze wast, perched cross-legged upon a shit-stained boulder, the smell of an oily rag emanating from zer ambiguous loins.
Jubilation rose within the Seeker’s throbberous heart. Humbly on chafed knees approached he the Nut-brown. Then eyes downcast spake he demurely, saying:
“Oh wise one, wizened with wizdom, Mastress of the peaceful and wrathful deities, blessings upon thee to outnumber the very stars themselves. May thy radiance irradiate the very blackest corners of the Kosmos. Verily I quoth unto thee...”
“Oh fer Shiva-sake get on with it,” spake the Guru, “or I’ll quoth thee in thy blackest corners, where the sun never shines!”
“A trillion pardons Mastress, oh Lamp of the World” wailed the Seeker, “please forgive the inadequacies of he who abaseth himself before thee, asking for naught but that thee hearken unto he who beggeth to know how one unworthy even to suck the smegma from thy holy lingam, how such a rank and foul impurity might sully the righteousness of thine presence, and re-emerge, answered and yet invalidated, in the hithertude of transgression?”
Thus enquireth the Seeker of the creased and marbled Mastress, the garrulous guru, the sun-baked samurai of truth, of whom wast previously spake.
“Oh get a life!” responded the Gnarled One querulously, “How can I answer thee when thy very words throttle the very life out of their own meaning itself? Verily! Cease and desist. Thy earnest visage maketh me want to puke! Thy mewling bewilderment poisoneth mine spirit, maketh the magic to winketh out: one moment glittering and alive, the next dull and devoid of spark, unquickened as a rotting dodo. Mine soul shivereth in desiccation. Mine mind wreathed in miasma. Wreaths are mired in mine asthma,” quoth the Nut-brown.
“Jeez, sorry for aksing,” spake the Seeker unto the Gnarled One, then turned and ran down the highest mountain screaming, then dived into the deepest sea sobbing, then wondered the endless desert moaning.
The Mastress watched his departure with a wrinkling, twinkling eye, zer loincloth flapping stealthily in a hazardous breeze, “You’ll be back,” ze said ...
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I'll be back, too.
Karen, delighted to hear it! Thanks for stopping by. MM
COMMENTS? Come on... gimme your best shot!