It is but attachment that we feel, is it not? To want to be with another like our own, to long for company in the midst of bleak depravity. Cogs in machines, locked in with nothing but the simplicity of seeing each other. A mundane cyclic rotation between rest and resurrection from the deathly hours that break the usual proclivity in which minds numbed tend to fall towards a state of no entropy. Little things in little places far from the reach of any human, a realm that no single person could ever hope to touch. It is here that we find the two who solely claim and reside in this plane. Two bound by ethereal connections under the Clotho’s own drawn out thread. The cocoon in which all blossoms has its own humble beginnings.
It starts with simplicity in belonging. Two roses blooming in proximal solitude brimming with the nectar of their life. Blossoms of purity fueled by will, sustained by desire, prolonged by patience, just waiting and watching for the first signs of another. Yet little is found in terms of another blossom. Seemingly all for naught between the bushes of Oleander comes little petals, the first fragrance and warmth amidst the toxic soma-rasa. There is finally a spark that ignites, burning through the sludge, the Agni that clears all that stands between the two till ashen fields of emptiness lay fertile, born anew in wait for the next step.
Here east meets west and the golden bridge is born, the first steps on the infinite stairwell to heaven form under the watchful eyes of Lachesis. There stands nothing in between other than their own hands yet how far they wish to go stands to be questioned. Little lies, tiny truths roses slowly stripped and unfolding. Bit by bit the petals align, slowly forming the next step on the stairwell till it reaches the first of many points in time where there is finally a point of fickle equilibrium. Sartre’s own nauseatingly high precipice of divisive decisiveness. The choice now lies in front of you as the two who dared tread down this path.
To those who dared finally take the leap of faith, I salute you. The path before you lies covered in jagged rock now that you have chosen to tread it, the simplicity of a straight path no more. It lay before you, winding like Nachash of Eden, waiting for your inevitable fall. It is the seemingly inevitable on the indefinitely narrowing path to what we deem happiness outside of solace and solitude. Social beings that crave one another, waiting for a time that they might finally see a light at the end of the tunnel of pure darkness, shrouded in the infinite mysteries that each day forthcoming would come to bring.
Walk down this path, should they dare to entwine the threads presented before them into knots inextricable and pray for if Lachesis wills it, Clotho shall promise. The threads continue to unfold and weave as souls inch closer to the island that lay before them, promised and foretold yet never truly seen. Little tiny specks and glimmers of light in bright rivers of milk and honey, flowing towards their own Xanadu. Fields of gold surround them until the footsteps of their own marbled palatial domain. Dreams bloom in shades of purple and gold. In Schopenhauer’s own words, “The final aim of all love intrigues, be they comic or tragic, is really of more importance than all other ends in human life.”
It is here that we find the nectar, not of the flowers but ones drawn and distilled from the tears of Venus. The air thickens into a mist of pure, unfettered stupor. The opioid drunkenness fills the room in a kind of shroud that masks all but the satisfaction that surrounds the two. In heated conversation beyond that which words can hope to sum up, they lay beside the other. No more thought as mind and body collapse into the soul. Nothing but ephemeral glimpses of purity of being remains between them as each returns to their own mortal equilibrium. The threads continue to twine yet the unturnable slowly looms over them.
There is no more left in their path but their own wills. It is now all a question of where they stand and where they shall go. The final step to an island of nothing but solitude, solace and satisfaction unending for all they shall be and all they shall have is each other. For now it all lies in the hands of the unturnable atrophy of the third and final of the Moirai. How far shall they go in the pursuit of their own realm is something that lay upon their very shoulders, weighing down each further step they take. It is here that they are tested to their ends for at any one point, one may be crushed by the weight of the withering and waning that Atropos now brings.
Yet through the crumbling of their own outer shells comes the truth that lay within. An ideal, a simplicity, the naked ideology of being, the very foundation upon which a person’s identity lies. It is under the crushing weight of atrophy that the soul is laid bare, pure for the other to see. In its blinding gaze, many fall under the weight of what lies before them, for Atropos deems their string to come to a fateful end. Under her watchful eyes, they trudge until the jaded reality of their path sets in. The walk to their own paradise isn’t one of simplicity but rather likens itself to the task of Sisyphus in its own right of proportionality in difficulty.
Yet this nary impossible task has a successor. Two who dared support each other through the tides of time in carrying the weight of Atropos bearing down on them. The weight falls off two who have finally nothing to bear, no more to hide, nothing that stands between, nothing that may possibly disturb their tranquility. The souls coalesce to form their own realm of solitude in the garden that we know to be Eden. For all that is and all that shall be, there shall always be two within this island, free from all else that may ever come in their way, past Atropos the unturnable, past the fates, past Xanadu, past all that is and ever will be. The foundation, built on their bodies that once contained their being, now hosts the lifetimes of two who dared to make it this far. Through life, through death, through rebirth, woven together for eons to come, lie the two we call “soulmates.”
