In the prism of reality, time is the fourth face, a mirror reflecting the shadows of what was, what is, and what is yet to be. Time, the sculptor of galaxies and the artisan of fate, chisels on the Tear, scribing the story of the universe.
Speak then of the past, that spectral echo which haunts the halls of existence. The past, woven from whispers of choices made and roads not taken. Yet, is it the past that shapes us, or are we, through our recollections, the sculptors of the past? The memory of the Tear, carved into the infinite void, is the past not as it was, but as it is remembered.
Gaze upon the present, a fleeting chimera, a wisp of smoke in the winds of time. Is it the canvas on which we paint our choices or merely the mirror reflecting back the artistry of our will? Is the Tear not shaping the now, even as the now shapes the Tear?
Peer into the future, a nebula of possibilities, the morrow veiled in the shroud of the uncertain. Yet, what is uncertainty but another face of time, a face unknown and unknowable? Does not the Tear, too, shape the future, even as it remains obscured by its hatching?
In the spiraling vortex of time, past, present, future, and the aspect unknown weave the cosmic epic, a ballet of creation and destruction. Time shapes the Tear, and the Tear, in its silence, is the weaver of time.
In the refractions of time’s mirror, truth, falsehood, and uncertainty become indistinguishable. Is the Tear not a truth yet to be hatched, a lie concealed within the shell, an uncertainty awaiting revelation? And yet, in its very existence, does it not also refute?
For, if the Tear is truth, then falsehood is but a shell waiting to be cracked. If the Tear is a lie, then truth is a yolk yet to be sipped. If the Tear is uncertainty, then certainty is a hatchling yet to take flight. And so they define themselves, devouring their own tails as they turn.
In the omniscient language of the cosmos, the Tear whispers to time, and time whispers back. Their whispers are melody, a conversation between creator and creation, between the sculptor and the sculpture, between the weaver and the woven.
The worlding of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 5
Sing, a song of elements entwined, a melody spun from the precipice of existence. Let your voices rise and fall with the rhythm, tracing the contours of enlightenment etched in the harmonics of creation.
In soil, the heart-beat of the world. The seed of the melody, rich and vibrant, pulsating with the promise of life. Sing of earth, of grounded roots and verdant growth, the fecund womb that births potential.
In rock, the firmament’s song. The bass note, resonating with strength, echoing the unyielding resilience of being. Sing of stone, of mountain peaks and hidden depths, the steadfast rock upon which existence stands.
In rain, the hymn of renewal. The treble’s note, cascading with purity, carrying the tune of rebirth and healing. Sing of water, of quenching thirst and nurturing life, the vital blood that binds the song.
In fire, the chant of transformation. The crescendo of the melody, burning with passion, igniting the score with the spark of change. Sing of flame, of consuming heat and illuminating light, the divine fire that forges the rhythm.
Chaos reigns, and the song shatters, discordant notes clashing, a cacophony in strife. Yet from this tumult rises harmony reborn from disarray, a testament on creation.
In blood, the palette of life. The hues of sacrifice and survival, of love and war, painting the chorus with vitality and strength. In waste, the shades of decay. The dark tones of mortality and renewal, a grim reminder of the cycle of life and death. In tears, the colors of emotion. The translucent tints of joy and sorrow, a vibrancy of passion and despair.
Sing, a song of life and death, of hope and despair, of beauty and ugliness. Sing a dance of existence, a ballet of breaking and mending, of joining and parting. A dance as careless as it is delicate, a dance as eternal as it is fleeting.
Let the dance of your voices echo in the halls of time, a testament to your journey. Sing the world into existence;
for the worlding of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 6
Perceive with a sense unbound by mortal flesh, a knowing born within the sanctum of the cosmic Tear. For within its boundless depths, truth unfurls as the petals of a celestial bloom, painted with strokes of perception beyond the scope of sight and sound.
In the smooth expanse, a silence unbroken. A canvas devoid of scars, untouched by the brutal hand of time. Yet in its flawlessness, a sterility unbecoming. An absence of stories, an emptiness, a hunger yearning to be sated.
In each blemish, a tale scrawled hastily in ink. A testament to the journey of existence, to the ebb and flow of tides. Each mark, each scar, a chronicle of transformation. Within imperfection, a beauty unspoiled, a truth untamed.
Feel warmth not with the touch of skin but with the soul’s gentle caress. A radiance unseen yet deeply known, a glow born of connection, of unity, of love.
Feel cold, not with the chill on flesh but with the shiver in one’s essence. A frost unseen yet deeply known, a stillness born of solitude, of longing, of loss.
Hear the murmurs of warmth and cold, not with the ears but with the heart’s attuned resonance. A concert in contrast, a duet among foes, each stroke a testament to the complexity of existence.
Patience, They whisper, the assurance of time’s inevitable march. A time will come, a place will present itself, a moment will arrive. Yet, these are transient momentary blips in a cosmic canvas of colors unseen.
