Wandering the misty plains I came, after some time, to a place of tightly-guarded teachings, a place in which the great turnings may or may not be swayed, a place in which the gentler tide may or may not be felt. Condemn me not for my curiosity as I strayed, though you may condemn curiosity itself for the evils it wielded by my hand. Reserve your judgment until my tale is told — all told, a manner of telling of which I nor any mortal soul is capable, an end which comes at an unknown time and by an unknown hand but which, when it comes, is fully known.
This place, a way by which many arrive and pass through, is home to few. It sits, at least in part, at the edge of a cliff, and its edges are likewise sheer and sharp in their inclination to welcome the wide and empty spaces of open sky into the narrow and warm company of hearth and rug. At the bottom of this cliffside is a raging sea, though so far down as to be placid to the ear. Were it kaleidoscopically brightened by sun, none would know, and to all appearances it is obsidian, hard and sheer, its mountainous teeth glinting at times imperceptibly with white stabs of light. Were it soft and buoyant, it would not matter, as from any attainable vantage it is pure resistance, deadly and unforgiving.
To put a fine point to it, which I will do, as the comfort of certainty is so scarce in this place as to render one rabid, to occupy certain spaces in this eternal institution gives the unshakeable impression of being suspended in space or floating in the sky, owing in part to the vertiginous placement, in other part to the underlying cosmic abyss just described, and in final part to a particular characteristic of the ceiling. The ceiling is sometimes vaulted like that of the most impressive and ambitious cathedral, sometimes low and claustrophobic in striking utilitarianism, but most often, it is conspicuously and strangely absent.
Oddly, inexplicably, the encroachment of the elements is never felt, despite this structure’s loose association with enclosure. Even more oddly, upon asking, the long-timers could offer very little comment, much less an explanation, having grown so accustomed to this mode of living as to have barely noticed any peculiarity in it, or remember how peculiar it once must have felt.
My arrival was unceremonious. One moment, I was walking through a vast, featureless place — well, not entirely featureless. There were grains, stalks of things, dirt, flatness, things that had grown familiar to me, things that were once featureful but whose peculiarities had long flattened into quantities and well-drawn lines. But there was the one novelty: the mist. It had appeared some days prior, and it was new enough that I still felt its nibble on my elbows. It was uncomfortable newness — It stood too close to my face and stayed up too long after I had gone to sleep — but it was new. Being such, it was all that occupied me as step after step, land passed, and all that was once seen became unseen, and the mist was all that remained.
Then I beheld them: the wide gates. To a starving mind, bathed in mundanity, the gates with their ornate, spiraling patterns inlaid of gold and fire were a feast. Had I seen my own face, had I even been aware of my having eyes, I should expect they were filled with the light and life of many years’ reserve. Towering, daunting passages were these, boasting a defense from the likes of naught I’ve ever known, but at my arrival, they opened, beckoning. Dare I enter? I confess at present there was no humility to stay me, no fear to caution me, no question in my mind but to seize desire as the sole object of this dull landscape.
Entering, I found myself on a bridge whose name and purpose are many, and in their multitude have thus eluded me all these years. That is, I have searched and searched for further explanation, always finding hints of its true being, but never finding so much as a name. The bridge was plain and straight, and it neither rose nor fell. On either side was only wall, high beyond any earthly horizon, and long, long, long beyond distance. There were no other bridges, no other doors but these two, one behind me and one before. Eternity beset us, the bridge and I, in all directions, above, around, and below. Had I looked down into the endless, pale white, had I then noticed the barrenness of the bridge’s sides, I might have reeled and fallen right off, no rail to prevent me. But I could not look down, for there, emerging from the great door ahead, was an elephant.
Swaying, adorned in fabrics and wreaths, he led a slow procession to the deep drumbeats that followed not far behind. It would, of course, be unfair to describe this creature in such earthly terms. Then again, what other terms have I? And were I to have any others, what would they mean to you? So you see, my hands are tied, fingers fumbling to whittle a sculpture of the air. I will go on saying “elephant,” and you, if you will, shall go on striving to imagine, however vainly, the very “elephantness” from which your notion of elephant proceeds.
