The Priesthood

Morning comes, and I am still the same. Days go by, but there is no change. I grow weary, so tired. There is no rest. I need rest.

I have had so many good things in life, so how could I now feel like I feel? I see visions of what once was—memories of who I was and who was there with me.

Those memories, as they once were, seem to have changed—some long ago, when he first took the steps to become who he was now. And the rest now follow; each step has been taken; the Fall has concluded, or so one wants to think. This is the bottom. A pit so dark no light can reach the bottom; no light can alter what you can see from down here. And when you look up, you can’t see the remnants of the sun—not light nor the warmth it once gave us. It has grown so dark as if a permanent mist were to be shrouded around his vision and around the memories that have grown bitter and as dark and as hopeless as the mind that once held them so dearly.

Within one’s heart, or mind, or whatever one wishes to call it, there is a place for everything. A place for love; a place for joy; a place for hatred; and so much more. And to make space for more, one has to remove what there already is. One has to forget, or one such feeling has to become one with another, for there is no joy, as that too had become a part of something else—something that now veils the mind and makes one stare for a little longer at the ceiling just before the dusk and the dawn.

He was left, mostly, to take care of himself. Of course, Y’Kraun was there, and he did visit him quite often, but at first, Kanrel couldn’t find within the ability to appreciate the little distractions that his only friend in this city of so-called Last Light—this city of shadows.

This freedom felt uncomfortable. It was as false as the light from above; as faux as his own smile when he had to introduce himself to another random Atheian, whose name he would surely forget before the end of their first and last interaction.

Everywhere he went, there were eyes on him: those that held curiosity; those that held a hint of enmity within; and those that were there just to watch... to make sure that the curious Darshi did as he was supposed to do.

In this city of shadows below, he walked and basked in the cold light that weighed him down; that made him keep his eyes cast down, away from the faces and those eyes, those many gazes that went by. Y’Kraun guided him through the streets, telling him of things that he thought Kanrel might find interesting but much of which he wouldn’t be able to recall later.

There was no comfort in these times of need. There was no mother to give him a warm hug; no angel to take him by hand and guide him through the darkest of times. The city and its people, for now, or perhaps forever, would remain unknown. There might’ve been many hands that would reach toward him to offer guidance if he were to just seek such comfort, but he saw no such things. He only saw the different types of shoes that one might wear below, and he saw the shadows of these people: some large, some small; some standing tall, some as slumped as he was. He wondered if, by one’s shadow, you could see the kind of life they have lived. If in that shadow, you could see if they were sad or happy, if they thought life was worth living, or if they had just despair.

He wondered, if one were to look at his shadow, what would they see? Would it be so obvious to others? Would they even care? Would anyone even care?

And so, first, the days went by, a slow crawl as he walked from day to day, confused and unsure as to what to do with this proclaimed freedom—how to live life from now on? How to survive these days that turned into long weeks, each turning more misty and bleak, each day more cold and weary; each shadow more heavy beneath the light that cast itself without remorse or care for those below.

Nothing changes; nothing happens. Each day is the same, and so these days shall remain. One can’t differentiate between one week and another; they are in fact just the same. They have always been, so they will remain.

Life wavers around change, and some even claim that change in itself is inevitable, as if it were the very rule of all things, one rule that governs all else. But this change isn’t in its nature, neither completely unnoticeable nor something that a mere human could perceive; it just happens. Without a reason, it comes, and it forces itself upon you. It takes people away from you; it alters the world around you; it leaves nothing untouched; it leaves no stone still; no mountain tall; no star lit forever.

But all this change is far away from the hands of men. Why the wind blows, we do not know. Yet it does. And the only way we can alter the wind is to block it, to build walls around us, so that we may direct it away from us so that we might be a little bit more warm. But those walls, they come crashing down. The will itself will one day pierce through it, and those walls will in the end become dust to populate the earth; to give yet another layer for another living creature to claim as its own.

To start such a cycle anew. To begin another day; to walk around these streets without aim; to reach home and lay in bed. Above you just the ceiling, as hours go by and as you ponder, to try to come to terms with reality. There is nothing that lasts; change is inevitable, but seldom does it come within your own terms. And even when you think it comes so, the wind will tear down another wall, and with it will bring another change; another problem that you have to deal with... It is a great effort to live from day to day. To survive and reach the next morrow, and why? Just to repeat it again. And again. Till you one day realize that there is no escape...

I need to escape.

At the end of another long day, Kanrel reached his little apartment at last. He had bid Y’Kraun goodnight and walked home by himself, now knowing the way all too well. By now, he could almost close his eyes and still reach the door; either way, it already felt as if he had his eyes shut at all times. When he walked around the city, he wouldn’t look at the things around him, and if he did, his sight was truly somewhere far away, deep within thoughts that kept on bothering him and that kept on reminding him of their existence. And from such thoughts, there is no escape. Especially when there was no distraction potent enough to keep them at bay.

He opened the door by simply placing his hand against the lock; most locks in such apartments were somewhat complex magical devices, and just because he could activate it and many of the magical devices that he had come in contact with, Kanrel had at least by now come to the conclusion that the magic of Atheians and the magic gifted to humanity weren’t so different.

He had, many times now, tried to sit down and think about this very similarity, but he just couldn’t. Words refused him; different thoughts replaced the ones that could lead him onto the path of discovery. So he had given up. Now, he never sat down to write; instead, he would lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling. And it was what he would do tonight as well.

But as he opened the door and entered, light met him. He had, perhaps, forgotten to perish the lights of the crystal lamp inside. It didn’t matter; the door closed behind him, and he took steps toward his bed; the light would go off at some point during the night.

He came to a sudden halt. In the corner of his vision, he had seen something. His own shadow.

Kanrel faced the wall of his little room; it was gray and empty; there were no things to make it interesting to look at; there were no engravings, no colors, no nothing; just a smooth surface of cut stone, polished into a firm wall that would keep warmth; that would keep a man safe during the night.

Yet there he saw himself—not a reflection, but a shadow. A heavy darkness was brought to this world by the light that stood behind him. He took steps closer, his shadow first large, much larger than himself, but soon it became small; it became what he was. It had to follow him everywhere; within it must’ve carried all the pains and ails that he had gone through; all the regrets and worries; all the deaths and grief. It had witnessed all of it.

It felt heavy and dark, this umbra of his own shadow. What had brought him here?

You couldn’t call this living, as he was barely surviving. Trying his best to keep above the waves that might sweep him away; down beneath them, to yet another form of void; another dark place; another cold part of life. Another dead end. Another death.

How does one descend to such a place? To such a feeling, through the many choices one makes; through experiences that have no true meaning behind them. One just had to think that there might be meaning, but he knew. He knew far too well that the coldness within; these waves that tried to take him away were ripples caused by him. He did this to himself.

There was no meaning, yet he was to blame. He could’ve been so much more, so much better than he is now. His mind after each day felt like this; it went through these same doubts and regrets, this unbreakable circle of self-deprecating thoughts. As the fog encroaches, it divides and conquers that which is left; this domain, once filled with at least thoughts that might’ve been worth something, had become a monotone wavering, no sparks of color to be seen anywhere.

His life had rippled too much; the waves created now crashed against him; time was running out. For just how long can a man torture himself before he self-destructs?

Kanrel let his hands go against the surface of the wall, his own shadow the same size as him. Why did it feel so heavy? Why had it grown so burdensome to let it follow him? It was just something everyone had, so why did it feel so different now?

He wanted to scathe parts of it away; he didn’t want to feel so ashamed while it witnessed his life. Why did he have to feel so ashamed of himself? Couldn’t he just once, this one god-forsaken time, forgive himself, be gentle with himself, and not treat himself as he did... Could he one day be a human, just once more, for a little while, to heal that which had burned and become charred... Just for a day, be it a short moment, he didn’t want to be a priest. He wanted to be that child he barely remembered.

Those spring days and whichever moments he had spent in beautiful gardens...

His fingers felt the smooth surface of the wall, yet it was so scarred, it was so uneven beneath his touch; it was hurt and broken; his shadow was in pain; it didn’t want to be touched by the creature it so pitied that it was ashamed to be a part of...

Shivers ran down his back as he felt forced to take his fingers away and not touch it. To let his own shadow be.

This encounter with it was just another form of shame and regret born out of it, from such a simple touch, a notice of a hurt thing, as hurt as himself; as ashamed of himself as he was.

If only he could touch it; if only he could feel it as something else rather than as himself; if he could see himself from the eyes of others, would their judgment be any less damning than his own?

For a moment, he wanted to merge with it. To become one with it. But no man should let his own shadow dictate his life. One shouldn’t merge with the very thing that makes him feel so ashamed of himself.

This shadow felt burdensome, not because it pitied him but because it too had experienced what he had; it too carried the things that made him the husk of the man he was now. To himself, he was a faint memory of someone he once was. Now there remained the memory of what was lost. And that loss, too, was carried by the shadow—by his shadow. It was a part of him as much as he was a part of it. It made him the man he was, but he made it the shadow it had become.

They were the same. A singularity divided by a fine line, along which the self balances its existence, anchors itself to those two, which together make him, who can observe the world through these eyes with knowledge and intent; that which is the passive part of him, who takes actions based on what those two sides of himself give him. Those two sides create the equinox of one’s persona; the equilibrium that alters at all times, losing its footing, diving in and out between the shadow and the light, the good and the bad; life and death; peace and war; lies and truths; happiness and despair...

But the shadow was too heavy. And there was no equilibrium. There was no good, just the bad. There was no peace, just war within. There was no order, just chaos that ruled. There were no truths, just the lies that persisted. There was no life, just death that awaited. There was no happiness; only despair answered his call. There was no light, just the shadow so burdensome that followed, and its shameful stench followed with it.

He gritted his teeth and took step after step back; he witnessed as his shadow became greater and greater, as it covered the walls and the floor before him; the uncomfortable bed; the table and his notebooks; the pens and the papers; then he reached the source of light. He turned around and looked into the blue of it, the holiest of lights that could be found beneath the ground. With a slow move of his hand and a touch that felt the coldness of the crystal, the light vanished, it vanquished, and shadows came crashing in; in an instant, the shadow covered all... But at least he couldn’t see his own.

And when the darkness became whole, he collapsed on the floor. As if chained, he lay on that floor. He drowned in that darkness, his mind screaming for freedom, for anything and anyone to save him. And then it became so quiet. Sated, empty. He could hear as the silence became so loud; it filled his world; it filled everything, from one corner of the darkness to the other. It filled that endless darkness, and for that moment, which lasted perhaps forever, or hours, or just days, his mind became one with nothing. Cold, empty, dark. Why is it so cold?

He shivered in this darkness, his body in violent convulsions, as if he had a fever so great that such shivers were the only thing that would bring his body any resemblance of warmth.

He sank to the depths of that darkness. The waves had won; the swamp swallowed yet another victim. And from beneath the waves, everything seemed so distorted. His eyes burned as tears forced themselves out; it hurt as they scratched their way down his cheeks. And each drop that found its way to the floor was just another addition to the darkness, to the waves that just hours ago allowed him to stay afloat.

There are no thoughts here. Just dread. An inescapable feeling that overwhelms you. It presses itself against your chest, not allowing you to get up; not giving permission for anything else than the experience it now gave you. The spikes that pierce your head, the sensation of your lungs filling with something else than just air. Drowning. I am drowning.

The mist has at last given way, but now there is just this pain; these spears, these, these, needles that are there, stuck to your head, to your memories, to the very thought of you and who you are; they cannot be pulled out, they cannot be removed, they remain, and they hurt. And the tears refuse to stop as he quivers on the floor, at the bottom of the ocean deep. The world and its sounds are muffled; only the silence is loud and clear, and that silence judges you; it deems you worthy of its deafening presence. It deems each moment in hell to be well deserved for the subject of its judgment.

Destruction. The only way out is destruction. The only way out is not to exist. The only way to live is to die. No forgiveness can be given; no forgiveness can be received. No redemption for the floor and his shadow. No mercy for a sinner. I must not exist; I ought not to.

The heart is heavy, and so it burns. His body is tense; there is no rest. The convulsions have stopped; it isn’t even cold anymore. There are no thoughts anymore. Only the needles remain. And even the silence has given way. There are sensations within he cannot name. His body was weak, and his mind becoming more clouded. What if he were to just lay here and not think at all? If he were to just lay here and slowly succumb to this illness. What if he closed his eyes and let no light grace him ever again? What if… he were to die? To stay here. To become still. To become nothing. Nothing.

But one cannot dwell in darkness forever. Not when such inaction leads to death. Not when the world calls for him; it forces itself in after a few days, in the form of an unrelenting curiosity others have for your own well-being. Be it family, or in this case, friends, who force you to open the door and let them enter the darkest parts of your being. Change will force itself upon you…

Without your wish, without your consent... They save you even when you don’t think you can be saved. Even when you don’t think that you deserve to be saved. Even when you think that life itself has only pain that it could give you. They barge in through the door; they break it in and let the light cast its soothing rays upon the floor on which you’ve found yourself, collapsed and empty, broken-hearted and given in, the burden of existence far too heavy on the soul that seeks salvation.

Y’Kraun looked at the floor, at the human who lay at his feet, not too far away from the bed nor the door. Then they crouched down, “Why the hell are you down here?” A simple question, what seemed like utter confusion, but down from the floor, Kanrel could observe in those eyes something akin to worry. Y’Kraun’s breath was heavy; he had run here. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He had run here. To see Kanrel... Why? For how long had he been on this floor? How many days had passed? Why did he feel so weak and cold? Why were his lips so parched? Why did the light hurt his eyes so?

“I fell asleep,” Kanrel muttered and tried to smile, but no such lie could form itself upon his lips; instead, he stared ahead, at the face of Atheian, who had become his savior. Who then grabbed him by his arms and helped him walk again; helped him out of this little room, in this little house, out and beneath the grand crystal that lit the city and its streets; the people who walked said streets, the many Atheians, who had been so far yet so close to a place that could’ve been his final resting place.

“Let’s go eat,” Y’Kraun whispered, his voice as jolly as one could feign it to be. No direct questions were asked; instead, he was led out to those busy streets, toward a nearby restaurant and the bowls of warm soup they could offer a hungry man.