Poemander

Shadows, darker than night, groping beneath, stumbling.

Walls, insurmountable walls are my footprints to these shadows.

They stagger and trip without the knowing,

They disappear into the night.

I was like them, lurching and falling,

I was like them, besieged with the plight.

Numerous are they, the figures of darkness.

Yet hark, they bed sparks from the radiant might.

These sparks are still latent, await to be kindled,

Into great fire burning so bright.

They sleep in thy heart deeply embedded,

Like old pyramid, they point to light.

Oh, people, ye heed to this transparent knowledge,

There's no safety other than courage,

Without the courage your life is all fright.

There's no salvation other than wisdom,

Without the wisdom all perish in night.

But in thy search reject not the darkness.

On reaching the sunshine take heed from the night.

So many have followed the fire of courage,

So many of you have climbed the height.

But dwell not on tops for you'r needing the balance,

The darkness is too being a measure of light.

On witnessing this I descend in caverns.

I mingled with shadows in alleys of night.

The quirkiest ones were still of resemblance,

Were still of the kind that shimmer inside.

And knowing they not that they too will develop,

They too will absorb what you've learnt to recite.

That's why I'm obliged to keep on returning.

That's why I'm obliged to tell what is right.

In this world the only objective law is the law of balance. It works its way through causes and effects. This law doesn't require justification by reason and is, after all, a 'law in itself' or a 'natural law'. Each cause has a corresponding effect already in existence, there is no waiting, no delay. However, the outcome, despite already in control, is rarely visible to human's eye and may not be felt or realised in it's entirety for a long time if at all. The inability to feel the effects or distinguish the causes does not discount their existence, but only highlights the limitation of the subject. The effect is not necessary targeting solely the same individual, definitely not in isolation. Existence doesn't 'pick and choose', it only knows joint liability, anyone can be responsible for everyone; there is no proportional liability. Several liability is strictly humans' undertaking.

Existence appears discriminate or unjust to a certain individual as the effects are distributed asymmetrically on any separate entity; however, they are a zero sum in it's totality. Therefore, 'fairness' is always restored through balance where the parts are still equal one whole.

The 'fairness' of existence has no concern for the people's concept of fairness. Any individual entity can be rightfully taking full credit as well as full responsibility for everyone's actions combined, no matter what each entity thinks, conceptualises or however allocates this credit among themselves.

Each molecule that forms a clay pot can rightful claim to be this clay pot, no matter whether it is located on the inside or on the outside, at the bottom or the the top of the pot. Should a clay pot cracks, even the molecule not immediately affected by the crack looses its utility together with the molecules along the crack. But does this mean that someone is at fault? Shall they blame those molecules along the crack since they couldn't 'hold' the pot together for it has lost it's utility because they were of inferior quality, different kind, perhaps, or indeed wicked? Shall they otherwise blame the potter, for the imperfection, for not mixing the clay properly or maybe for subjecting it to excess heat?

In the first instance, they will never have a full understanding of what has caused the crack and will always attribute it to the nearest and the most obvious cause, i.e. find a reason. But this will not necessary be the real cause, because the reason is only a justification of the cause and not the cause itself. Now, it is impossible to say whether this crack has an adverse or a beneficial effect on them collectively, unless only subjectively, by interpreting the meaning of an associated reaction (in response or in anticipation) and extending it into a concept of morality. This kind of law is a 'subjective law' or a 'customary law' always requiring justification as it is concerned with the hypothetical utility and thus with the morality. This law is an extrapolation of a common sense.

Secondly, what if there is no utility or it is deemed that there has never been any utility? To begin with, they would have never known their utility, unless only hypothetically. The notion of utility here will be purely dogmatic, primarily required to justify the law. In the world with no utility, at least the obvious one, the most authoritative dogma becomes the source of law. We'll call it in this example the 'dogmatic law'.

Holding potter responsible only means shifting the responsibility and rarely credit even further to the periphery. This is an example of an individual and the societal abstraction packaged in the concept of democratic liberties; however illogical this may sound, institutionalized religions are a living prove of it's existence. The extrapolated result of such society is a “hive mind”.

Unfortunately, this may have sounded somewhat convoluted, but the message should be sufficiently clear and hardly surprising to anyone; whether we call it a 'subjective' or a 'dogmatic' law, it is exclusively nonobjective. If we assume that the link between the causes and the effects is never completely obvious, the issue of justice and fairness becomes a matter of interpretation. It is open to interpretation and thus reliant on some kind of assigned to it purpose. Imagine blind leading the blind – that is our law, people's law. It has no concrete source other than the interpretation of purpose. So, what is utility? Utility is purpose.

What maybe less obvious, though, is that justice has no relationship to utility or purpose; justice is purposeless. Justice doesn't need purpose because it is a 'thing in itself', it needs not to be served because every act or omission to act is paired with an immediate response or effect. This pairing is itself a justice or an objective law propagated by the natural balance. The response is immediate because existence already has all the needed components, or one can say that it is efficient enough to give an immediate answer and immediate justice. It would probably make more sense if you think of it in terms of the entangled particles: a stimuli to one gives an instant effect on the other. But, are we not returning back to the same 'potter' theory, shifting the responsibility away from the individual, only this time to some indistinct 'universal law' or 'natural balance'? I say no, instead, I endlessly expand the scope of individual's footprint, except that it is not some intricate and convoluted web of consequences that the individual is responsible for, but the original intentions. Intentions, “mens rea”, not the acts or the consequences are the measure of justice, and these are the best we have, no matter how obscure.

Do I thus negate the need of people's law as unnecessary, blind, in the light of universal justice? No, the reason being is that people's law too builds into the elaborate web of causes and effects, while not the justice itself, but certainly a part of it in a bigger sense. It is a mistake to think that the rule of law is to establish justice: justice has already been established by the very same act causing the injustice. The rule of people's law is there to provide the emotional convenience and to establish the perceived environment of control.

Too often I feel throwing rocks in the abyss,

I wait for the splash, but hear only silence.

I walk through the desert, no turning for me.

Like chasing the cloud that no one can see.

Hazardous is path: quicksands of the doubt.

Yet dream I of rains and seeds that will sprout

In land infertile which knows not it's glory.

Will there be someone to narrate my story?

Is there someone who sees and who listens?

I look all around and only wind whistles.

Will there be someone who reaps what I sow?

They'll know not of times this happened before.

Those worlds that were build then perished in vain.

Would this be insane to build them again?

Six days, comes the seventh to rest and reflect.

Will there be tenant to match architect?

The likeness and image to add to the sorrow,

Like bone of the bone and even the marrow.

There is nothing left to cut or dissect,

Go dare, go fail, but don't retrospect!

The emptiness fills me, I know what will follow,

But lingers a yearning like somehow, tomorrow,

Despite all the odds, completely anew, I witness

Rebirth of a human, a man of the hue!

Respect nothing except for the fact of existence. Respect no age, respect no title, no accolade, no achievement – these are all phony. The fact of existence is the only thing out there deserving respect. To exist is to have a meaning or to be meaningful – nothing exists without a meaning and there is not a living thing in this world of a lesser or greater meaningfulness. The meaning of existence is not in the privilege to exist, not in a general right to be, but in a very specific claim, a claim on one and the same substance- beauty. Beauty is the overarching meaning of existence.

Eyes see the flower but not the beauty, ears hear the melody but not the beauty. The beauty of existence is in the seeds that will grow into flowers, it is in the fingers of a musician that are about to touch the string, the beauty is in intent, the beauty is in potential. The greatest, and possibly the only moral duty, and hence the purpose of any living being, is to prolong this beauty, propagate the beginning, propagate the intent. This is a prime meaning of life, nothing else.

As narrated:

No, I wasn't afraid of the old age. I actually waited for it to see how it feels, to see whether I'd become wise, whether I'll eventually learn something or whether I might even happen to uncover some of the world mysteries unattainable to young minds. But no, I wasn't getting much wiser and, strangely, I wasn't getting older; years gone by, but I felt the same like when I still was a high school student. Yes, of course I've got some attributes of an old age – aches here and there, needing a snooze in the afternoon, but inside, I felt still the same, inexperienced young man. The years of work, travel, grown up children didn't change this perception if you know what I mean. I was still this probing ingenuous being roaming about the face of this planet looking for the meaning. Yes, it wasn't much of an actual roaming as I've done in the past: changing countries, pairs after pairs of boots worn into the ground. This time it was more of a mind-roaming, digging through memories, trying to remember the people I met, understand the feelings I've had. You'd probably be right at saying that I have never grown up, or more to it, that people generally do not grow up. I've heard some psychologists discovered that human's cognition rarely develops past the age of fourteen years old; they must be right, at least in my case. The next I remember is walking down the street to the corner shop, thinking of all this, as I usually do, and then, this squealing sound of car breaks. A heat wave inside my temples, very hot. Taste of blood in the mouth.

An image of a young lady running back and forth, leering down at me. She was very distressed. “On my god! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”, she mumbled pulling the phone out of her pocket. I wanted to calm her and say “Its alright”, but the words wouldn't come out.

Day turned into night and I could only hear the distant sound of siren. People gathered and a man in green shoved them off including this young lady whose tear-flooded emerald eyes and convulsing lips continued to occupy the whole space of my waning consciousness.

Picture flipped, as if now the reverse of things happened to be more important and meaningful than the things themselves. It has actually dislodged like an elaborate transformer, changing shapes and bringing the earlier invisible parts to the surface. They were still the same, but different. I couldn't say why and in what manner, but there was really no need to answer these questions because despite being astounding, all these transformations appeared so logical and simple that no one would even bother explaining them. I continued to be pulled between these instant realisations and the people in jade masks leaning over someone whom I could loosely associate with myself. Then, it was a walk. A walk through the dark forest, or rather, the whole forest walked by me. Every tree was intimately familiar to the point that I wanted to linger and embrace them, but I couldn't as some insurmountable force has started to unravel the already slackened quiddity and persistently untwine the strands of whatever constitutes difference between being and not being. I didn't fight, probably because there was no one to resist, neither outside, nor on the inside. I closed my eyes, or rather the essence of what is normally taken to be the eyes, and prepared to be shut off in absolute gratitude to all there was.

However, due to some inexplicable error, there still remained a faint transparent light. It shone with the soft emerald glint luring me in. No effort was needed at following it as a shimmering halo took the whole space, soon becoming the only entity in existence. It was alive and luminous with the countless fibres of sublime energy and deep mesmerizing transparencies. There was no epithet encompassing enough to describe this entity and the powers it possessed; all the pronouns combined wouldn't be sufficient to correctly address what I have encountered because it was me, he, she, it, them and you at the same time. “Slide”, it said without saying, or rather an instant knowledge of myself commanding and obeying simultaneously. I immediately found myself inside one of the fibres, not that I was trapped, quite the opposite, I was everywhere at once, yet, I somehow chose to concentrate, or condense myself in that particular conduit, and off I went. A sensation of a free fall and gliding. At a breakneck speed I swam without effort inside the torrents of light. I saw oceans and mountains, stars, galaxies and universes pouring onto the stage of this incredible spectacle. The current took me nearer and further, and as if granted some special privilege at the performance of royal opera, it took me behind the curtain and introduced to every character who in turn have told me their remarkable stories. I knew everyone I witnessed, I knew all of them intimately and replied back to their stories with the music of light. Like small rivulets snaking between the tiny obstacles, these stories began to consolidate into one mighty stream ramming boulders and crushing barriers on its way. Rushing forward it continued to strengthen until gaining an absolute supremacy so that the banks themselves would open up giving way to its abundant flow. So great was its power that It didn't have to rush anymore and now flew gracefully carrying the immense ranges of this fidgety substance that people customary associate with life.

On one of the banks, knee-deep in the morning mist, stood a fisherman. You couldn't see his face and only his long white beard was showing from underneath the wide-brimmed conical straw hat. Very absorbed in the process this old man was that he didn't even turn when I sat next to him. He kept staring at a barely visible float bobbing down the river.

“The river flows slowly, yet everything is accomplished”, he said at last without looking at me. A pause had hung like a chunk of a lingering mist until float suddenly dipped tagging the fishing line through the layer of fog. He waited immobile for a second or two before nimbly striking his bamboo rod and masterly pulling out a shiny silver herring flopping around on the other end of a fishing line.

“Where will you go once you have arrived?”, he enquired seemingly from no one while taking the fish off the hook and throwing it in his bucket. “Want to see yourself?”, he asked casually, now prodding the bucket towards me. I didn't understand, but peeked inside the bucket. There was at least a dozen of fishes and this little herring on top, still flapping his tail and gasping for air. I looked closer and stunned as this herring was looking out at myself with my own eyes and face. An inner panic took hold, I lost ground and began to suffocate hopelessly gulping emptiness with the mouth wide open. Jumping up in convolutions and slapping myself mercilessly on the insides of the bucket, I glanced up in despair: two jade stones were starring at me through the veil of fog from underneath the wide-brimmed hat. The old man's eyes were the eyes of a stone fish glistening in a desolate light. “When you let go, you become”, he said as I was sinking into the opaque bottomless pits of his pupils. I sank deeper and deeper, until eventually releasing the grip on this ephemeral existence and allowing the last bit of self-consciousness to escape into the vastness of the old man's stare.

This was the end, the end in a human sense, or in a sense of me, self, mind, soul or anything at all you can name with an appropriate epithet. This has been duly dissolved, annihilated, disintegrated, done and dusted. However, the infinity cares not about the epithets, it knows no ending, no beginning and this is true, whether you agree or not. It has its own intricate and most incomprehensible ways, at least not to this finite and limited comprehension we commonly associate with reason. It has its own ways of diving into the mind-boggling depths, and yet, emerging again on top, fresh and anew. Infinity is such a thing that cares not about the differences or similarities, it sees no difference between the old and the new, the high and the low, the kind or the cruel, and in fact, it doesn't need to see at all: who needs this unpolished crude sight when even the gem of a foresight lies abandoned, gathering dust up in the attic? This dust holds the infinity inside each and every spec. Like crab trails, it protracts the elaborate passages laying out a maze of an astonishing complexity, and it is only a matter of imagination figuring out what makes the entrance and where leads the exit. In these trails roam the dissipated memories of those who dreamt, loved, aspired. They roam and mingle, bumping into each other, until they find themselves again and start whirling with joy bringing up a huge cloud of dust. This cloud flies wherever it wants, and when the dust settles it reveals the shape of those condensed and solidified memories. One of them had a shape of the city, it looked Hellenistic or Roman. I felt the urge to come close and enter inside. So I did.

Instantly I knew that I was sitting in the market, it was cold and I barely had any clothes on apart from the tattered robe and a travelling sack. People rushed by, busy talking and bargaining. I seemed to recognise their language, even though they must have spoken several completely different dialects. Some threw a coin, others a lump of bread into a wooden bowl that stood by my side. I got up and started to walk towards the harbour. The lighthouse towering across the bay gave an awe inspiring view reflecting the rays of the rising sun. The structure of magnificent splendour, truly deserving an admiration. At night its light is visible miles away from the sea, it beckons ships seeking harbour; at day, the curved mirror signals the approaching vessels with the beam of sunlight. Like the navigators of those ships, I've followed the light delivering here the cargo of still yet unknown content. Merchants have already flooded the Jewish quarter as I turned across from the wide Canopic boulevard. I knew the streets well although I must have looked like a stranger. I travelled many years from the land of Ashoka. Basking for a moment in warmth of the morning sunlight, I continued to walk towards the eastern bay passing close to the barracks and then strolling along the royal harbour. The moorings were already busy with many ships setting off and a many more ready to enter the bay. It was starting to get breezy and before the connecting mole I lurked into the adjacent gardens cutting through to the Mouseion. There I found a comfortable limestone bench and sat down facing the direction of Pharos. It was immensely peaceful despite the continuous noise brought by the wind from docks, only two streets up the front, and people walking up and down the massive stairs of the library immediately behind. As I fixed my sight on the gleaming sea, a bulky dark figure sat next to me on the right. I continued to stare in the distance.

The stranger spoke first: It is a good day today. I knew you would come.

Wonderer: Who are you?

Stranger: People call me Tresmigistus. To Masters I am Poemander.

Wanderer: How then do I call you?

Stranger: You don't need to call me; I am always where the seekers seek.

Wanderer: If I am a seeker, than what am I searching for?

Stranger: Your dream. Don't you remember? The emerald light you saw back in Baktria? You, the son of Sakai, long you have travelled seeking this Emerald Edifice in the land of Yonas. As in your dream, you have searched for it to inscribe the law of Dharma. Have you found it?

Wanderer: No, not yet.

Stranger: People grow sly and stubborn nowadays. They refuse to see the truth unless someone inscribes it for them, in blood. Socrates was the last, look what they've done to him. Euclid, right in this very same building, (Poimandres waved at the Mouseion behind us), had to encapsulate all inside the dodecahedron. Archimedes, right here, today, is squaring the circle. What for? Because for millennia people won't know anything better. People will live in the dark. We all knew this. They are working hard while the sun shines, to preserve what is available to all. The lights are getting dim. The mobs in their cowardice will burn the scrolls, but this fire won't give them the light. My poor Hypatia, they'll molest, torture and burn her on the stack right here (Poimandres pointed to the street towards the harbour). The lights will go off.

Wanderer: You named the great minds. What can I do? I am not worth their shadows.

Stranger: Mind without the vision is a ship without the skipper. A skillful shipwright builds a seaworthy vessel, as today so tomorrow, but you, yourself, will have to sail it. Like this beacon (Pimandres pointed towards Pharos), I can shine the light, but I cannot make you see. I shone the light and you followed. So, be the light-keeper in the mind of darkness! Kindle this light and bear it through the night until one day someone's ready to take the notice.

Wanderer: I shall carry your light, but what is my lot? Where do I go?

Stranger: Your lot is my lot. We're rowing down the same river. I ventured downstream, I met the ocean. Now is your turn. Go ahead and plot the course, then return and tell people what you have witnessed, guide them. Be the pilot in the tides of time!

Wanderer: I shall go and I shall tell, but what if they don't believe me?

Stranger: Believing is throwing sand in a raging bull. To hit the bullseye you need a bow of unwavering patience, a string tightened with daring and an arrow sharpened by intent. Be the archer in the woods of wisdom! Take these scrolls (Poemander extended the scrolls that he was keeping in this left hand), inscribe them on the emerald tablets, infuse them with patience, and when the time is right, shoot your arrow straight through millennia into the daring hearts as fresh as my maiden's tear. This is my intent.

On saying this the stranger placed the scrolls in my open palm squeezing it lightly. I immediately felt the numbing wave spreading over my veins as if they have been imbued with the liquid lead. I turned my head to look at my benefactor, but there was no one. I had no scrolls either; however, I had an absolute clarity and knew exactly what to do. I stood up and went straight towards the harbour.

Long have I sat in the deep cave in the Taurus Mountains. Many things came to fruition, still more have perished, not excluding those that came to fruition. Yet I waited patiently, waited silently until the waiting itself has given up and only the patience remained tightly curled into a deeply cocooned silence. The body was dead, the mind was dead, yet the patience remained alive: the anachronistic moth fluttering above the mummified corpse. It flutters hither and thither, spreading the ancient dust. It, itself, is dust – the patience incarnate, made from the very essence of time. How many times have you seen the decay and have you seen yourself being decayed? If you did, then you must have noticed that the structure of things, not excluding your dear-self, is made of these dust-moths. They hang onto the translucent fabric of meaning, gnaw it, chew it, and when it is duly consumed they have nothing more to hold onto; they fly in all directions, like little fairies, sprinkling everywhere the almost magical, primordial dust.

There were visitors, not many. They came seeking truth, looking for inspiration. However, my truth was nothing but a thick layer of dust covering the Tresmigistus's tablets and the only inspiration available was made of prolonged silence. Nevertheless, they have rightly received what they were coming for – wisdom. Because wisdom isn't something inscribed in the tablets which I have warded with care, but is immanent in their own intentions. Of them built I the emerald edifice with the luminous fibres of deep mesmerising transparency. Of them I sharpened my arrows and shot them across the aeons piercing the hearts of the daring. And as you read this, heed, one of my arrows was pointed at you.

Age has no wisdom, nor the wisdom has the age. Both are made of dust, except the wisdom knows this first. And when my arrows fly past, wisdom takes heed from the cloud of dust they rise and bides its time, whereas the age is busy erecting barriers not knowing that my arrow is already being embedded in its core. And knows the age not that there wouldn't be any core if not for the solid, piercing intent of my arrow.

I too was biding my time, this cleansing mechanism, a washing machine, spinning the dirty rags of knowledge, civilization, culture. And each cycle makes them more stretched, uglier and distorted. Old stains are getting bleaker and gradually covered with the newer marks, blemishes and spills. But no one goes naked, they simply put up with these filthy rags, just because everyone else does. And, lo, god forbear you do otherwise. You dress your kids in them and teach them to be proud of it, and so they do to their progeny. The cycle continues, and one day you'll pull out your washing to discover that there is not much fabric left; nevertheless, you'll put them on and go on the street just to find to your amusement that everyone else wears nothing but a sheer nakedness. This is the function of time – to thin the layers of your dress and reveal everyone's true-self.

And after I shot all my arrows, I myself had become an arrow. I flew through times and embedded myself deeply in what is to become a new cycle. I sat there content, not allowing a minuscule thought to interrupt the radiating impulses of nascent potential. And when the time was right the sea came crashing with the strong undertow pulling me into the funnel of daylight. Waters dried and the magical aether went rushing into expanding lungs. A cry, people in jade masks, soft bosom and the painfully familiar tear-flooded emerald eyes were gazing down at me with indicating kindness. It was warm, it smelled mother, it was all I had and nothing else was needed.

Humans are travellers, continuously on the move. Humans are seekers aspiring marvels. They may stop awhile, take a break, but they will perish should they stagnate. Humanity took people as conveyance; with the legs to fare and an upright stance to see, people adapted and are learning by degrees how to bear the weight of humankind. Humanity is less concerned with saddle though, and more concerned with movement. They want to swish and see what's there for them, switching rides at will and changing horses for improvement. Some people are not giving rides and graze unburdened. They should, however, feel relieved by right, but their limbs are heavy and the jaws are tight. Just like a bulging carcass on the road, no gentle touch, no jolt can bring it back to senses.

Humanity can take many forms, with the people being one of their shapes. There are some animals and some others that are duly humane. There are also others who used to be humans and may become humans at will. Humanity is bigger then people and shall, by all means, outlive them when the shoe will become too small to fit.

Like a pilgrim, humanity is moving towards its destination, sometimes on horseback, sometimes on foot. But the distance is neither measured in miles, nor in the years of travel; it is measured in sparks of understanding washed by the tears of joy. These tears are marvels outshining diamonds and gems. In them, like in a crystal ball, you'll see the past, the future and the glimpses of the final destination.

Humanity is fleeting like a scent, yet constant like a stream. In times of drought it disappears to only come back again from seemingly nowhere, with the new liveliness and freshness.

You may ask, however, what makes me so certain that humanity will succeed in arriving to its destination? It is indeed a difficult question, especially looking from the space where no light shines. I know one thing for certain, though, that humanity has got no choice, it has to move on adapting to this or another form, but it has to reach its goal. Humanity has been given a batten in this round with the entire Universe in the spectators' seats. Everyone froze watching them running. But mankind is not privileged, it's just our 'show time'. Others have done it before us and the others will do the same in their due time. Like by emptying the lungs exhalation induces a new breath, the cycle repeats itself on and on again. Plants have been humans in their course, long-long time ago, and granny willows along the river bank dreaming distant human dreams, allow lovingly for the kids to swing of their branches-hands – “Splash!”, into the waters. They dream of the past and of the future, cause that's what dreams are all about – the reminiscence of the future. There is no past and there is no future in the whirlpool of existence. Gods will be rocks and fishes – gods, and they all will have to have been humans, once and for all.

Give me my bow and three arrows,

Put them by my side when I die.

Don't dress me in suite, don't read sermons,

Need not I confess or comply.

I'll walk past the lines of the prayers,

Nocking my arrow in gate.

I won't throw a glimpse at betrayers,

Shoot first in the wind to hit fate.

Loosed second, transfixing the darkness,

Strikes wakeless with thundering bolt.

Know well, I arrived, but didn't come artless,

By forging the dreams to behold.

The upshot shall fly through the passage,

It'll break through the veils of time.

Send forth my piercing embassage,

Fiery heartfelt, blue valentine.

Semantically, the pronoun “we” is especially confusing; how can first person be also plural? The truth to it is that “we” is not less singular than “I” is plural. Both are nested within each other, just like matreshka, both are vertically plural and laterally singular. Now for the sake of visualization, picture the same matreshka with the imaginary vertical axis connecting each doll. From the bottom tip draw two straight lines running up the sides of the nested dolls inside-out widening up the top. The most outer doll, being the biggest, has the horizontal line topping the inverted triangle. It shouldn't be much of a stretch to now imagine the same structure but with an infinite number of ever increasing and diminishing dolls: you've got an infinite inverted triangle. To go a step further, picture an infinite number of such triangles overlapping each-other in such a way that the wide tops are completely overlaying one another, whereas the bottommost tips always remain unshadowed and standalone ( remember, triangles are infinite, so the tops are ever-approaching singularity and the bottom tips -plurality). This structure is the identity structure where “I” is the vertical axis (ever wondered the elongated shape of a letter designating pronoun “I” and the numeral “1” for the same matter?), “we” is the overlapping at any point and “they” is the seemingly fragmented tips down the bottom. The smallest dolls only are capable of understanding “I” and “they” ( only hypothetically, since infinity never reaches a complete disconnect and some shadowing always remain). Moving out and up the vertical axis, outer dolls are beginning to have some overlap, thus making “we” possible as well. Upon reaching up, the individual vertical lines merge ultimately becoming a singular “I” and “we” at the same time, the interpretation of “they” becomes redundant and absurd.

One should eventually understand that “we” is a vertical structure, a structure extending indefinitely through the multitude of nested “I”.

If you ask whats the significance of all that, I'm sorry to say that you have missed the entire point. It is like the toes on our feet asking the significance of the vascular, nervous or lymphatic systems and the significance of their linkage to the body. Only upon progression to the outer shells do we recognize the consolidated identity and the absurdness of claims on privacy, rights and entitlements.

The need for state and government is transitory. Both play the same role as a pair of crutches for a crippled. Some would rather see same analogy with the baby walkers, but to me, this period is long gone and it just happened that no memory exists of that time.

Whichever way, they are a necessity when one cannot walk on his own, but will become a burden upon full recovery. The crutch is made to suit person's own height, weight and fitness. So, neither the government, nor the state can be bigger or smaller than ourselves, for if they are, a trouble will it be for us to move if standing at all. Where the length of a crutch is measured in inches, the size of the state and the government is measured in liberties. Liberty, a social freedom – a reflection of public consciousness, and the consciousness is our only guide in this world.

Government should not regulate the affairs of it's citizens, or any of whatsoever called classes of citizens, instead government should ensure and uphold fairness in dealings through the rigorous defense of the uniform measurements.

All governments, in theory, exist solely for this purpose: uphold the trust in fair exchange.

I watched how people carry themselves, I liked to observe how they carry the shape of them. On the bus, in the subway, on the streets, at work. I asked myself, what am I doing here? I didn't know, I thought I was wasting time while others do stuff. I saw people taking animal shapes and animals acting like humans. They bleated and quacked, I listened. Some people looked as if they were made of rubber, others of wood, walls had faces. I watched myself watching them and I asked myself – who is watching? I didn't know, I couldn't think. I began to notice one thing though, there was a gap. A gap between them and their shapes. I watched my hands, there was a gap between them and myself. The gap sometimes started to widen, first slowly, then faster, until the frantic expansion taking the whole space, up to the point when there was nothing but the gap and this piercing silence...

Other times the gap narrowed, dwindling exponentially until there was no space between the shapes and the objects, all jumbled together into a screeching mass, smaller then the point of a needle lancing my eardrums.

I looked in the mirror, there was nobody with the eyes of you looking at myself. I didn't know that I saw the gap, I thought that I saw you and you – me. I asked myself if I was here, or was it someone else. There was an issue with it, however, – I couldn't say what is 'here'. So, another question has grown into a big bubble ready to burst: “Here is where?”.

Moving along the damp corridor I saw nothing and only the strong smell of mould would suggest that I was approaching some kind of a passageway. Indeed, I discovered a staircase, probably leading into the basement, I couldn't tell for sure though, as at this moment I completely relinquished every last bit of certainty. The guitar string suddenly snapped and writing her name in the sky I went down in a free fall – out into nothing.

I was still asleep when I heard deep rumbling breaths, there was a tiger in the other corner of the room. He looked at me as I froze in fright. His eyes were shallow, the eyes of a beast. Unable to move I lay in awe. An enormous squeal come up to my throat but only materialised in a hoarse whisper as if there was a cotton ball stuffed down the windpipe. So long since I first started to feel presence, a continuous perturbing presence of someone behind my back. In the back seat of my car, behind the wall. I lived with it preparing for the end, like rehearsing a play, I stood each time looking right in the eye... This time was different, the fright was real. Tiger was ready to pounce. Three, two, one... At once, it all collapsed in my head – a house of playing cards! As if strings of a sibylline musical instrument, the light filaments filled up the room. They vibrated with inexplicable harmonies unfurling up in the air the mesmerising geometries of colour. The gap opened and with a great magnetising force the eyes of the tiger sparkled pulling me into their bottomless crevasses. From their depths I looked out and saw a person lying in the other corner. No he wasn't me, I wasn't him – I was the tiger!