The Well of Illusion

You fell into the well of illusion
In seeking to quench the thirst of your spirit,
But never did you expect to swallow flames
Or become a flame yourself.

Your ashes you threw into the four winds,
For you wanted to become wind.
But never did you expect to lose yourself so easily,
A tempest lost in its own madness.

A wanderer amongst tombs and deserts,
You now speak in riddles and ghosts,
Preaching what you have once forgotten,
Preaching what you yourself once had.

In the memory of your spirit you recall
The happiness of a star and bright eternity,
Now shadowed by your own eclipse
And the tears of too much knowledge.

And having wept the tears of the spirit
You cry, "Naked I left that star in whom I was born,
"Naked do I wander among streets and ghosts.
"For little is there of spirit here, now that I am spirit."

With new funeral stones you surround yourself,
Deaf to lamentations as to whispers.
Only with chisel and hammer do you dare
To pave the way to new resurrections.

For in the expectation of great dawns
You carve out your ivory stone of happiness.
"This is the pillar to my new god," you say.
"For once he was dead, and now he is born."

On Songs of the Soul

Verily, it is difficult to transform one's depth into one's height. For that there is need for much inversion, introversion and isolation in hermit's caves.

It is only in the rigorous and cold mountain air of the spirit that one may contemplate his soul. Far above the clamor of tumultuous thunderclouds and the foolishness of April rain, one is free to see himself as he is in a clear and perfect mirror.

Such clarity speaks in the language of sparkling wines, reserved only for the most reserved and select: those who know the secret of life within the body, and its parable of exaltation and elevation.

Forgetting myself, remembering myself, so I spoke and prayed thus to my soul before the rosy morning sun:

"O my soul, you sing to me in my solemn nights and poverty, when the envious moon is too negligent even to illuminate, as my nightengale and singing bird of pain...

"O my soul, how often have I come to you in tears, and yet your sweet melancholy always brings me to mirth! You soften even the hardest hearts with your gentleness, for in your eyes there is always the glance of stars and eternity. But despite my happiness, I rarely thank you...

"O my soul, you speak in riddles too soft to hear. And whenever I sought to cast my net upon your colorful shells, you always scuttled away like bashful crabs into the depths of the sea.

"O my soul, in you have I drained my sorrow and hopes and maledictions, and as an amphora of the sun you always blessed me with your secret golden happiness, you murmuring fountain of my highest hope!

"O my soul, you creep into my solitude as a nimble, testing stealthcat. You do not offer your friendship so easily. A creature of silence and craft, you tread on lion's paws, and walk with grace even upon broken glass. You are too proud even for hunter's ploys: innocent in your stalking, your craft is a game and not a murder.

"O my soul, you do not bed too easily with the soft. Accustomed to hardship and long journeys, you rest in peace even amongst caltrops and thorns. You endure enmity, pain and malevolent storms, and yet you are no fakir. Whereas most only bear their crown of thorns, your crucifixion speaks of roses and benediction.

"O my soul, never would I dare to pluck out the heart of your mystery: we know too much of each other. Upon the porticos of the temple we always walk together, as lovers walk, through stone archways and quiet gardens. You know the sacrament of taciturnity and silence: you meditate even when you speak with idle words. You always stupify the loquacious with your bright silence.

"O my soul, your heavenly pranks always soothe my delinquency: I, the most sarcastic and somber of delinquents! Too often have you visited me in prison for me not to dream of your smiles. For you sanctify even dead stones with your happiness...

"O my soul, you gave felicity and eloquence to my words... I, a stammerer and defiler of the Word! You offered honey to me as a somber growling bear, a hybernating beast too long accustomed to the isolation of cold mountains.

"O my soul, you always wake me toward my dawn, for you are my dawn. When I was but a nemesis and flitting ghost, you demolished all nocturnal day-dreams and insubstantial silliness, and instilled in me your holy, gay sarcasm.

"O my soul, you have brought me to tears... I, a warrior scarred by too many battles and the stings of poisonous flies. Even the greatest warrior has his tears, but rather would he bleed first then cry in fear of blood...

"O my soul, it is through blood and knowledge that I am sanctified: the altar of my affliction is founded on funeral pyres. The song of the soul is always heightened through martyrdoms and slaughter. But little do people comprehend that kindness is the greatest slaughter...

"O my soul, you are the gentle precurser to my Spirit ― your star-gowns and shell-tressles prophecy the happiness of a divine marriage. Upon your immaculate finger rests the ring of a perfect matrimony: such a serpent swallows itself in its wisdom, and all things gravitate to it as their sun.

"O my soul, you speak too candidly for candy ears: therefore you needed cleverness for gaping jaws and dumbshows. No one has the ears to understand your songs, therefore you blush when the deaf hear you as muffled tones. Out of shame and bashfulness you glow in your dawn; your petals shine too purely even for their dew. In your simplicity you have always called unwonted attention to yourself. Blushing from your flood, you seek not to put the blighted drought to shame...

"O my soul, how shameless I am before your holiness and sincerity! Your sanctity does not proclaim itself in words ― therefore your speech runs more honest. And how heart-wrenching is it that before you and shrouded gods I must still only be a poet?

"O my soul, how often have I wanted to kiss you, but for my blasphemy of wanting to bless the most sacred and beloved...

"O my soul, you are too kind even in my coldness: you forgive me even when I have forgotten you. In dark rooms have I hid in my hardness against myself, and yet you always sought me as my redeemer, with honey-combs, truffles and roasted lamb. You always lure me from my shadows with tender songs toward the golden playground and gymnasium of the Spirit.

"O my soul, whenever I have been error and confusion and dreadful futility, you always came as my harbringer and necessity: my becoming into purpose out of accident. You shatter all musty tombs and rotten sepulchres. As the hammer of my will, you reprimand me with gentle blows.

"O my soul, in dreams you came to me as my flock of sparrows; your flight heralds the advent of lions and doves. Such are the divine emblems of ultimate love and sacrifice. And what lover would not sacrifice himself for your sacrifice, which does not even ask for anything in return?

"O my soul, despite paint and absurdity, and the noise of too many parrots and circus clowns, I always distinguish your parables and silent inclinations. It is too easy to become small and miserable in crowded doctor's rooms: but you always kill time with your innocence. Your graciousness absolves all childish need for magazines and trivial newspapers. How could I want to read anything anymore but your words of fire, which inoculate my ashen heart?

"O my soul, you shatter my hopes and dreams for comfort and security, and always draw me to secret, blessed paths. Although you take me into hell to view its razor gardens, how could I not endure them in order to be with you? You are tranquil even before fallen gods, who have long since burned out their stars. You shake hands and drink a toast to the devil, because you are too overwhelming in your kindness...

"O my soul, you have always been a gambler: you play dangerously with divine dice and dice players. You do not make small bets, but give everything your all, because you always cast golden hopes before your deeds. In your confidence you know the result of all things, even when they be on a razor's edge.

"O my soul, you guide me as my lantern through wild and barren deserts. You draw my wisdom from exasperated wells with your water-divining powers. You are fortune and fortune's strife, my destiny that shatters all destiny, for you write my true name upon a perfected stone..."

Thus have I contemplated my soul upon the mountain, high above the foolishness of April rain.

But even after I concluded my prayers and solitude, my soul once again came creepingly unto me. She always knocks unexpectedly at my door: thus have I the need to constantly remain vigilant and overawake. And after our usual greetings, she whispered this wisdom in my ear: "Once a fool, always a fool ― regardless of the season."

It is not only in April where one is seasoned a fool, although Spring initiates much foolishness for our season. To those who look for antagonism and strife from this fool, thus do I have to say unto you... April Fool's!

Thus speaks Ding Dong.

On Resignation

A new strength have I found in my resignation and solitude. Verily, too often does one's solitude become a prison. We ourselves are jailer and cell and musty stone. But it is with chisel and hammer that we pave the way to higher paths. Yet for that, much patience and endurance is needed ― and even calloused hands.

A bitter and vengeful heart have I found in my breast. Too long have I lived in the marketplace amongst the calls of the street trumpeters and the humming of poisonous flies. The danger of the lonely one is not that his kindness kills, but that such generosity often turns on itself like the scorpion with its tail. His danger is that he learn to throw his compassion like a stone into the well of abandonment.

Is it not irresponsible to resent the resenter, when our responsibility speaks most honestly of our folly? Yet we always have too much self-consideration: look, how the slug praises his shell, when he himself is filth and poverty and wretched contentment!

Is it not difficult to be responsible when no one takes the stand, especially when we are alone? How weak we are when we hesitate, as butterflies fluttering before adamant crowds! We condemn those who send us to the cross; such is the folly of our best wisdom.

When bitten, one seeks to bite in return. However, my hardened hide has taught me to tolerate even toothless nibblers: such gape-jaws are innocent in their nibbling. But piranhas and paragons one should avoid, particularly if one has thin skin and gentle blood.

And towards my enemies who nibble and spew, how can I not find joy in my humble sarcasm, which is not wounded by their words? Upon the peak of tall mountains, does one not see such toys for what they are: a playground and gymnasium for the spirit?

Does Ding Dong teach you of solitude? Does he teach you penance and passion like wild flowers? But such flowers of virtue only grow on pure soil, upon high mountains of ambrosia.

Your best virtue amounts to nothing if you are clumsy in such fields: even an inconsiderate action is enough to crush one's virtue.

A vengeful heart I have found in my breast, palpitating with the venom of so many flies. Only a dragon cannot perish from such venom. Therefore, the disciple must learn to forget and pass by much.

Should one go against such wisdom? But folly demands that we strive to know how to love, and our wisdom is our best folly. I have found resignation in my folly as my best wisdom. Truly, it is absurd to strive against mountains!

But one must become a climber of mountains, and not a talker of it. Verily, too much talk has infected even the mind of this clown, and I would soon resemble the parrot with its broken wings of the spirit...

A new strength have I found in my resignation: not to despise the despiser, but to love out of my great contempt. Out of my love and height shall emerge true compassion, though it strike both friend and foe like lightning. For it is a bridge toward new shores and hopes, a rainbow of consolation after long storms.

Well shall I mask such compassion, for those who would not welcome it. There is nothing that teaches men to bite more than the bite of conscience. Therefore, beware of your good and your evil! You weigh scales far above the multitudes, and they never forgive you that you break their old tablets and abaci.

It is better to teach the dumb than the deaf. The illiterate always seek to understand your words. But with the deaf, only your warmth and not your words are weighed. Although one cannot hear our words, they at least can register the happiness of our face, and muffled kindness. Through the gift of words, such benediction can penetrate even hard shells.

Too long has Ding Dong sat among the deaf, who do not have ears to hear his wisdom, and that is: my folly is my best wisdom. So who is more foolish than I, that I may delight in his instruction?

Too long have I sat in resignation amongst dull stones, and many a knife have I broken on them – to the resentment of both parties.

I have been a beggar with too many riches, stolen from caves of vast mountains, stolen from the very dragon's nest. Enchanted are these treasures, and painful is my heart that I have had none to take them as gifts.

Such gifts are meant only for the unselfish. Too greedy have I found all buyers, without resignation. They do not want to accept Ding Dong's gifts, so had I to resign to the poverty of too many riches.

Is not giving a need? Is not receiving mercy? But merciless have I found all buyers now: they are too poor in their riches. They resent all mountain air and mountain freedom, this crisp immortal air of the spirit.

The bleeding and the sick and the poor of spirit, thus do my hands reach out to give to those who suffer more than I. Their suffering is the suffering of poverty, and mine the suffering of too much wealth.

A new truth my resignation taught me: to love those who do not love us, to love when they do not give us pity. For everything human wants pity and consideration.

Too considerate and too hesitant has been this clown, to profess what he has always taught in words. Although one enters the circus, one need not be a clown in order to be heard.

With happiness and bright colors of resignation, I resign my proud head to the guillotine. May the catastrophe of the executioner be cruel and quick!

Is not love of our enemies more noble than our worst contempt? But one must be rich enough for that. Rather than competing with dull stones, it is best to climb high mountains.

Far upon the horizons of the spirit my will has willed, towards fields of sacred lilies and ambrosia of the spirit. Such clean air saturates my bones, and makes me giddy with hope. Wafting upon such breezes of happiness, my wings have only known the joy of stretching, and the humble test of dignity.

High above this muddled city of despair have I flown, and far down into the depths have my eyes searched for prey. Too many are the poor in spirit, who boast too much of having spirit. Maimed and pretentious are these sick ones; my honor demands that I only hunt for fresh lamb.

So shall I descend like a hawk upon my enemies. My talons shall bear them to my happiness; but if they do not like such heights, I cannot resent them for that. But at least shall I have the joy of testing my strength.

High above the smog of polluted minds have I flown to the future. Within the most recessive and secret isles of life have I found my ivy wreath of happiness. But the brainsick have always been there to pluck at my wreath, to test the sincerity of my resignation.

Such lunatics even wear business suits, and seek to drown me in legality and polemics. But if I must resign, then it shall be without benefits.

Thus speaks Ding Dong.

On Scribes and Pharisees

Thus do I speak unto you of the Scribes and Pharisees, you lovers of truth. If you would venture into orders and groups, needs must you arm yourself with these reflections and words.

Or do you seek to enter Gnostic groups, without armaments and reflection? While divine symphonies emerge from the orchestra, know you not that even many a criminal has learned to play an honest tune?

Or do you expect the angels to be present with their harmonies? To forgive and to bless with their knowledge?

Instead what is common is friction and contradiction; for even upon beautiful buildings are much weeds and corruption.

The worst villain I always found to be one of knowledge, for such souls should know not to kill. While not killing with a hammer, one kills with a smile, which deals much worse than a hammer.

The worst villain I always found to be one of knowledge, for with knowledge comes power, and contradiction. One’s knowledge generally contradicts one’s being. Most only have too much knowledge, and very little understanding of their knowledge.

And on the same note, it is not bad that they know little of the truth, but that what little they know they know badly. The Pharisees have always known too little of the truth, and when you demonstrate the sun of your knowledge to them, you anger them that they know it badly.

If this clown had the choice to live between sheep and goats, he would prefer goats, for at least their coarseness proclaims itself honestly.

Who can condemn these goats when they are innocent in their babbling? But the sheep, stuffed with too much knowledge, always declare, "We are bah-bah-better than you."

These sheep with their meekness hide razor wool, and many would feign humility so that they may sheer with their razor humility.

Such meekness would cut the face of a god, for in its pretension, it thinks itself a god. Thus do I speak about the Scribes and Pharisees, who are filled with too much knowledge.

At least the ignorant are honest in their dishonesty. Their dishonesty announces itself clearly like sounding brass. But the silence of the sanctimonious kills in its irony, for their very doctrine unveils their shrouds.

The silence of the sanctimonious is louder than words. I almost cannot bear that beautiful tunes would come from such bagpipes.

Tiring is this wailing, which calls itself divine. Such beautiful screeching is only fit for funerals, and truly, it has not been the first time that someone died from such noxious tones.

“Knowledgeable and kind am I,” speak the sanctimonious, "and just. That which does not conform to my justice is shame and guilt.”

But do you want to be limited and defined by these hypocrites, you lovers of truth? Painful it is to be placed between a “yes” and “no,” as if one does not understand “yes” or “no"!

Stuffed with knowledge and sanctimony are these erudites, who curse with their blessings. When light shines upon these dusty tomes, they do not look upon their own pages for their guilt.

A dictionary are these bookworms, crammed with too much knowledge. And yet they do not have the knowledge to revise their own lexicon, and for true humility lack a definition.

No, I do not like these Scribes and Pharisees, who condemn with their sanctimony, and bless with their maledictions. To those who invent their own virtue, such priests only offer the fire and the stake.

Is it not shameful that they want to fit your ocean within a bottle? Or that they pollute your fountainhead of wisdom with the inkwell of reasoning? But they are not worthy of your knowledge, which you have wrought from too much pain and solitude.

The wisdom of my folly will always mock the folly of their wisdom. Whenever they strut, I always hear the creaking of floorboards and musty windowpanes. Allergic am I to the dust of such ancient maledictions. Their coffins speak of putrefaction, not holiness.

While affirming themselves mature, many remain yet children, but without innocence. Under beds of pretension hide many monsters, and yet these children ignore that they are their own monsters.

So if you venture into such spiritual company, be warned of these sanctimonious ones. Many of the strong have swooned from the stings of such gadflies, and for their honor suffered terrible injustice.

But let your justice shine freely and with strength. There is more honor in confessing to such executioners that one is guilty, even when one is not. However, one must have much courage, and a fearlessness of death.

But are you willing to die in both your pride and your shame... your poverty and your riches? Can you become a sacrificial offering unto the sun?

Can you live amongst sheep as amongst wolves, when you yourself rage as a wolf and are dying of hunger and thirst?

Can you admit before the council that you are a heretic, even though your justice shines through open eyes? But my brother, these hypocrites do not understand your justice, and so they always seek to put you to shame...

You have heard it said of old: two wrongs do not make a right. But verily I say unto you: a wrong shared is half right. He who has ears to hear, let him hear!

And better to be wrong in one's right than right in one's wrong. But the Pharisees do not comprehend you...

O divine paradox! Do you not see that the very hand which beats you offers you your eucharist? If you would prove the temper of your justice, you must accept both sides of their hand, with equal and honest fervour.

But if it is comfort you seek for in groups, it is better that you remain in your cave. There at least one has the solitude of one's eagle and one's serpent. Upon high mountains with strong air does one remain far away from the rabble and unclean.

Whether in the marketplace or in the temple, do not look for comfort save but from the sun. The sun will always shine upon your happiness without malice. But amongst the hypocrites, you will only have enemies who turn green with envy.

With the Scribes and Pharisees, who squeeze the mosquito and swallow a camel, there is only sacrifice and the dagger. But beware lest you become weak from the loss of too much blood. You cannot absolve them through the innocence they shed from you; therefore, flee into your solitude, where the air is raw and strong.

Tempered and strong is the honor of the just, which bears even the heaviest malediction. But remember that even tempered and strong blades have become cracked and worn from too much malediction. Do not attempt to whet your scythe upon such dull stones. How could you expect to reap a harvest of wheat from such a garden of thorns?

Although every thorn has its rose, such flowers of virtue are exotic and rare in such Pharisees. Too often when they speak of their virtue do they praise their vanity and weeds...

Poor are these gardeners of the spirit, who lack cultivation. If it is repentance and happiness you seek, you must search for it far away from such ravenous jungles. If you let yourself be dazed by their heat, in delirium you will easily mistake their crooked branches for shelter.

Instead, work within your blessed solitude, which does not ask overbearing questions. Your solitude knows how to keep a dignified silence with you. Be like the rebel eagle with the wings of the spirit, which soars upon the cold air of high mountains.

But while you remain in the depths, amongst poverty and crowds and much affliction, you must become anonymous, for the hypocrites love others to be unseen. I love those clowns who hide their beauty in ugliness, in order not to put the king to shame. Meanwhile, such clowns are those truly fit to rule vast kingdoms.

If you would be a king, you must accept the role of beggar, and to learn how to live in humiliation as with honor. I love he who hides his wealth from the covetous, but gives his poverty to the poor, so that he may be truly rich and free from hypocrisy.

Thus speaks Ding Dong.

On the Spiritus

Great Wind-Spiritus,

Like a sounding lead I cast these words into your soul, in order that I may know how deep it is:

A great wind is this Spiritus. Such a wind is seen when it seeks to be hidden, and is hidden when it seeks to be seen.

A great wind is this Spiritus. No one knows where such a wind listeth, although one hears and feels much; such is the nature of the Spiritus.

A great wind is this Spiritus. Many naive leaves allow themselves to be tossed by this wind, and yet they do not inquire into its direction.

A great wind is this Spiritus. Such bellows seek to cool hot tempers, and yet such winds only agitate the flames.

A great wind is this Spiritus. Such bellows seek to temper strong blades, and yet they only puff up and make emptier.

A great wind is this Spiritus. Such winds come from a big heart, yet such winds must be yoked by comprehension.

A great wind is this Spiritus. It seeks to fill sails too big for it, and attempts to navigate without seeing the stars.

A great wind is this Spiritus. Many sails does it seek to fill; meanwhile it cannot even fill its own sails!

A great wind is this Spiritus, agitating waves and rocking ships. To great latitudes and longitudes does it reach, and yet it is something invisible and unseen.

So obvious is this wind of the Spiritus, yet many do not see it. They would mistake the fury of a storm with cool winds, and cool winds with the dead calm of the soul.

A great wind is this Spiritus, seeking to be heard. Such winds are the result of over-consumption, and the indigestion of too much knowledge.

A great wind is this Spiritus, seeking to be discreet. Such winds often seek to hide themselves, and yet their scent is unmistakable.

The laughter of a clown is hilarious until one becomes the subject of such laughter. Yet Ding Dong’s laughter is not one of ridicule, but of too many tears.

Despite laughter from too many tears, there is no fire of contempt. There is only a wind that would seek to fill your sails, if you are willing to open your sails…

And so I say unto you: Do not be a bigger Ding Dong than Ding Dong! Thus do I counsel all Ding Dongs...

And those that would laugh at Spiritus, restrain your own winds! Do not attempt to make storms out of ponds!

Too much talk makes too many waves on this Forum, and yet people ignore the smallness of their boats!

Too much talk makes too many waves, and rather than sailing on smooth waters, one must bypass much debate.

Ding Dong would only open his sails to winds that lead him in the direction he wants. Yet since many do not know the direction they seek, they wander listlessly, blown by listless winds.

A great wind is this Spiritus, serious in its strength. Yet such winds, if seeking to fill young sails, must be tempered and controlled.

Many are the young sails that enter the sea of this Forum, seeking to be filled. Yet since they have never sailed at sea they open their sails to any wind.

Spiritus, do not seek to be a wind bigger than you are, for the humble sigh has more power than the exaggerated cough.

A great wind is this Spiritus, seeking to be felt. Such winds seek to be guided and lead back to HUM, the Great Spirit. Yet if such winds would return, they must not be exasperated through too many words.

Let it be known that a greater wind is in its silence. It offers solace without calling attention to itself, and while being forgotten, it is never forgotten.

A greater wind is in its silence. It guides without seeking to be seen, for it knows that it is empty and unworthy of recognition.

Anonymous is the greatness of silent winds. Such winds guide the homesick without pretension. They only flow in the direction their Spirit wills.

Thus speaks Ding Dong.

On Friends and Foes

Friends and foes, thus do I speak unto those who would bear arms. For I shall make enemies of my friends and friends of my foes. Thus do we strive to become as Gods.

A little friction and a pinch of contradiction, thus do my friendships secure me from a dull slumber, and a course without progress. For progress is measured by resistance; never could I consign to victory if I never felt the fear of defeat.

A little contradiction, thus do we spare our friendships from a big contradiction, a treaty doomed to the shore and the reef. With a little disagreement do we make amends, but with great disagreements, faction and disparity.

Peace and war, sword and laurel, such are the emblems of my faith in friendship. A little war goes towards great peace, but too much war to infamy and destruction.

A little enmity goes a long way in friendship; thus are friends put on their guard towards a greater enmity. But too much friendship courts too much comfort and sleep.

Amongst the graves of friendship I have always seen inscribed: "It was in too great a friendship that my friendship was broken," and "Without a little skirmish, we were unprepared for a greater battle!" So if you would rise to the rank of general, a little soldiery in friendship is needed, and skill in battle.

The best ambassadors to friendship I have always found to be the best warriors; what is his knowledge of friendship if it has never been put to the sword?

A few daggers from ahead are always better than from behind. With a little jugglery, one learns to avoid small cuts.

But once stabbed in the confidence of too much friendship, one is asked to admire the hilt of the betrayal.

It must also be said how friendship is cemented with the acknowledgment of clownhood. If one thinks himself above the clown, then one only receives laughter from the other and much offense.

But in the recognition of clownhood, one's tomfoolery is fuel for common laughter. For in the coldness of poverty, both take delight in the same fire.

Thus is the meaning of friendship, and thus do I speak unto those whose friendship would pave the way to the Superman. But with a friendship of the couch, one must consign to a long and undisturbed slumber.

Thus speaks Ding Dong.

On Children and Adepts

Children and Adepts, thus do I speak unto those who are still children. It is never a childish thing to become an Adept, but it is a childish thing to be adept at one's childishness!

A great overcoming is that of the child into an Adept. Such transformation requires the death of the worm. Yet while the sacrifice of the worm is great progress, it is great retrogression for the butterfly to long for the chrysalis!

The false warmth of security is the shackle of insecurity; some butterflies feel the terror of flight, and the danger of great heights. Thus do they long to return into their womb.

The crisp and immortal air of high mountains calls upon new butterflies. Upon mountain peaks rest fields of ambrosia and lilies, the proper nest and home of the butterfly.

Yet upon perceiving such impossible heights, some butterflies wail with consternation and grief; such a journey requires the complete sacrifice of one's wings. It necessitates the faith of much endurance.

Through the fruit of renunciation is one transformed, but through the trembling of uncertainty is one malformed. Although one creates the butterfly, such wings may yet be dampened by the filthiness of birth. Such wings, being new, lack strength and responsibility.

Yet upon high paths and tall precipices are such wings strengthened, if these poor insects would acknowledge their poverty and their strength. After the discomfort of far travels, one is recompensed with the nectar of sweet Amrita on the mountain of Empyrean.

Strong is the will needed for such journeys, and strong is the will needed to break through the shell of a new birth. In the beginning one is insecure, and requires encouragement and much tending.

Warmth and good will are needed for newborn chicks, who long to soar on higher paths. Yet the incubation of warm words can suffocate even newborn birds.

While it is necessary to feel the warmth and protection of good advice, there comes a point to a mother's hospitality.

If you would learn to fly as a rebel eagle with wings of the Spirit, you must renounce smaller wings and the comfort of too many words.

For verily it is written, one must become a child in order to enter the kingdom of heaven. But first of all, it is necessary to grow up!

Thus speaks Ding Dong.