The New Sermons of Vashi Part 2

 

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.