Infinity

After more than two days of fruitless inactivity, today I have broken free.



49 hours ago, I was visited by the apparition of an idea. It left me awestruck. and comatose.



I read the last two lines along with you. It has unearthed/dug up one major curiosity : what is the sublime idea? As an author, I've the responsibility of figuring out something that matches the excitement of these two lines.



If you ask me, now, for a word, I'll give you this : Infinity.



The eight symbolic fruits were hanging from the tree in the courtyard. The fruits were perfectly spherical. This at once surprised and pacified the young novice. His name : Unknown Query.



He, sat beneath the great tree of eight fruits, and meditated. The following time was counted, not by predictable and eternal movements, but through random visions that weaved in his mind an unending tale.



At the end of the story, the storyteller asked the inevitable question :



And his answer was :-



There are trees like this one in distant lands. The number of fruits are different in all of them, and shapes, too. Here, forgive my use of the word "distant", as you know and I have only come to know, that to recognize distance is to look from outside. But I have seen them all within me. If you ask me how many trees are there, I'd have to show you the fruits of the tree within me.



The storyteller nodded in agreement.



He opened the book that was once called, "Death of Mathematics". There are no page numbers in the book. It's meant to be opened at a random position. The page that opened now says,



There is no meaning you inject to this lifeless text, by saying "now". Which now? this now? that now? Alas, your "now" was lost when you were busy saying "now".



Disturbed, the storyteller, again opened a random page.



We came this far. But couldn't reach it. We have no energy to carry on with. Here is a clue that someone told us on the way. May be, it will be of some help for you.



'Look for your secrets in exhaustion and awe'



Now, totally confounded, our little storyteller went to the 'New Age Bookstore'.



The storekeeper, was trying to arrange all the books in shelves according to category. But he was having a hard time doing it. When asked, he pointed out to the storyteller named Normal Preacher, that a few years ago the name of the book was changed to 'Death of Language'.



He didn't tell him that he was a little down. In fact, he didn't say anything. A complete contrast to yesterday, Preacher thought, when Dig Deeper, the bookstoreman, was enthusiastically sharing his feelings with him.

Deeper, at last, driven by penitence, wrote down on the back of a voluminous book :

Penitence, it is not. The contradiction between my present and past. Present gnaws at my heart; a familiar voice tells me how base I have been. And I agree spontaneously. Although it has long been my conviction that there is nothing solemn and nothing base...

On the other side of the book, was written a poem :

Which way are you going?
How long can you bear the pain?

Where you are heading,
There'll lie a fork in your path
Then again,
Then another.

How long will you choose
between them?
How long...

The poem abruptly ends here. The first thought that came to Deeper's mind was that the subsequent part must be written somewhere. and the second thought was that the poem was meant for him. He looks at the title : Death of Philosophy.

The author just died a second ago. Deeper was there when the black-robed individual declared that Futile Fame, the renowned author, had written a manuscript, that starts like this :

I once claimed in a book that today there is no mathematics, no language and no philosophy which can claim consistency. Here, in my last written document, I admit that it is not my arguments and figures and analogies and rhetorics and sarcasms and wits that prove my point, but simply the contradictory fact that I have been using mathematical logic and usual language to "prove" what is my personal philosophy, in that book.

Silence, is consistent. Silent, I shall be.