The Sky is Falling: Chapter 1

A photo illustration of the cosmos above a cityscape


There is a spirit the senses have yet to detect. It brightens the soul and gradually yields to the flesh. It is as the whisper of wind, a bird’s tweet, a child’s laughter and an aroma of tranquility; such gaiety. If only the sense could discern their existence. 

“So, it is said that love is a spirit. Then where does it go, if it has yet a flesh to manifest itself in?” he ponders to himself.  

Asking relevant questions and responding accurately may make one seem knowledgeable. However, being excessively talkative is not keen to his character. So, he kept his silence. 

Then, attempting to spiritually maneuver through the man’s mind, the sage inquired, “What do you prefer: to be wise or to be worshiped?” 

The man thought that both would be ideal to obtain. But if I’m to choose one, I must choose wisdom, he thought. “To be wise,” the man stated. 

His answer proved to the sage that the man had somewhat of a grip to reality. The sage further inquired, “What do you prefer: love or financial wealth?” 

The man was content with his financial situation. However, he was not certain if he had ever been loved. Hastily, the man responded, “Love.” 

A few years ago, the man had visited a psychic who decreed the man would not find love because of his past life, in which he was a wicked man that broke the hearts of many women. The psychic had also told him he had a dark ring around his head that was considered evil. She had showed him a picture of an angelic figure with a shiny ring around the head.  

The psychic had lacked precision with her prediction. But this sage seemed more thorough. 

It often seemed as if the spiritual word was controlling the man. He was smarter than his peers, even though his esoteric knowledge at times made him appear awkward among them. It was almost as if there was an unknown, aged man living inside of him, a wise spirit. 

One day, soon after visiting the sage, the man’s world seemed to turn completely upside down. 

Perhaps, it was a mist of different types of spirits that somehow stalked him after visiting the sage and the sorcery workers. Perhaps, it was the same spirit that caused misfortune in the lives of his family, now taking vengeance on him.  

Whatever it was, it was far from pleasant. Some days the man awoke feeling as if he created the world, while other days he was disgruntled with the demons that seemed to control his world.  

“Damn them demons that have placed me in a stage of misery,” the man scrawled on a piece of paper. “They’ve even arranged my sorrow for tomorrow. Damn them demons — let them burn.” 

Gradually, his acquaintance with isolation began to transform him into a savage beast. 

During those days, there existed savage beasts that had yet to encounter love and had yet to live. Savages, their ages were consumed with birth and death, another rotation each attempting to flee from daily frustration. In-between stages of grief and relief, the savage beasts crawl, walk, run and then disappear. 

It was only breathing that kept them here. Some days, the man would spend his time waiting. Waiting on whom? Waiting on what? He had yet to decipher. 

Perhaps it was the smile of the moon; the singing of the cosmos, the counting of the stars and the natural scent of fresh air from the after rain that took the pain away. 



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