- With Siddhartha at the River -

(Fable of the Indian Orphan)
Within the kinship of social approximation lies this solitary critter. This Indian Orphan. Wrought in the progress, tribulation, experience of everyman and witness to the history of popular consciousness, to the deep meditative states which have dispelled time for our eponymous protagonist, he is accompanied by canticles sounding both the mellifluous cadence of ancient times and the sweet honey of silence. We can only suppose his thoughts which bear serenity to the most tumultuous events and to the thoughts present in his absence. Make no mistake, this Orphan is no angel. He is merely that which has been left over. The old hymns and canticles beguiling the savannah of sentience grow to encompass probabilities and possibilities he has become versed. They place him at the intersection of enlightenment where east and west singularise in the worldly circular phenomenon. He is to the samsara and spiritual sense imbued of eastern thought that the primacy of deductive reasoning is to the west. The Orphan knew his place: within the sensual passage of time. He knew how the future evolved, and how ideas and innovation bring time forward. He knew how he’d ascended but couldn’t link the kinship or brotherhood with straight lines, thus remaining an Orphan. And this is where he finds himself today: where nothing was and everything is.
His world had moved from an ephemeral suggestion where he was orphaned in contemplation of transition, to a fixation of proximity which compressed distance – he could now see and move further and quicker than ever before. This compression of distance in turn compressed restraint into misanthropy and caution. This compressed liberty into freedoms so absolute their consequence was a satiated, fatalistic and superstitious psyche. And although the modern world had precipitated the morphing of unparalleled riches, there had too been a compression of narrative which made things less clear; a broken theosophy in which natural, even arbitrary things became pejorative to each other. Modern man appeared as a barometer of opaqueness in both identity and location. The language increasingly became apocryphal and specious. Even the material surround the Orphan knew as the world had become a story of pre-eminence to its physical shape. The Orphan had long known the world was a globe, and just as the wheel can’t be reinvented, the extensiveness to the phenomenon of globalisation seemed nonsensical. ‘A globe is a globe’, the Orphan thought to himself, ‘it can’t become more of one!’ The Orphan felt uncertainty to any beneficial outcome in such rumination. He attempted to remove the sibilance from his thoughts, but couldn’t help think the modern world only alluded to nature’s absolute grace, without containing this grace naturally in one place.
For all the things bestowed upon him, he was unsure if history would radiate outwards. In the distant past he had tested the brumous longanimity by self-flagellation, but it had long since dawned on him the pointlessness of this and besides he had long since outgrown his loin cloth. His long standing forbearance for the frosty outside world had wilted. He had emerged from the ennui and enervation of the secularised modern world with a desire to progress. Affronted by pathways to transcendence, the Orphan would meditate and let nature flow through him. Not the conditioned habits of second nature - things which had settled in him for better or for worse - but first nature which resonated in its nascent sound of creation - in the tremendous burst which set forward the surety of consciousness and the inevitable circularity which causes beginnings to arise anew. It was in meditation he felt the pure energy of first nature transform minutia into the vast constant expansion, and it was here the Orphan would hear all the voices he’d ever heard. He could see into eternity and all the journeys he’d undertaken. From the opening moments of evolution, from his first thoughts and his first thoughts about thoughts, to him standing on his own two feet staring at the stars and not just his naval. He saw the migrations which had seen him move from continent to continent, and he realised what he knew – the intuitions – were a result of the things he had lived, all bound up in the present, in the sensual passage of time where nothing was and everything is. The scientists, the canons of religion, the ideologues, who had all mapped out versions of mass and particles and gravity and the celestial interplay of faith and the arrangement of social order, but to the Orphan they were just fragments of the truth both miscreant and analogous to the things he knew. The Orphan, now in deep meditation, danced on the riverbank with Siddhartha in realisation all things were bound up in themselves. The river itself, God himself, eternity itself. And he realised no matter how people, places, ideas, change the meaning of this change resides within us. We are the residue – which has been left over, the result of all things which have passed – eventually this too becoming itself in the savannah of sensual dimension. He could see interwoven in the anomalies of each particular period the imaginations and breakthroughs and discoveries that progress in a gradual advance of changing circumstance, bringing time forward. A contemporary pantheism which becomes a reflection of its expression. Emerging from his meditative state, the Orphan knew it isn’t just what happens within us, but what happens between us.
A canticle arose in the back of his mind soon placing him under complete arrest:

History horizons cascading will
Eternal solarpleptic kill.
Heart sedulous, left to chance
Passed down stories of ancient romance.
Of fastidious cancer and acid pearl cells
A didactic anguish deepening wells.
Logamatic bubbling, elegiac loss
Evolving theandric, Ubiquity
And Us.
Much had been made and written of the thousands of years and faces the Orphan had seen and assumed. The anthropomorphism had been the source of archaeological tracts, fiction, scripture, speculation and conjecture. The canticles seduced him by appealing to his remoteness, his quixotic, dreamy nature. They gave grandeur and passion and an irregular beauty which he sort over finish and proportion. And through time he would encounter these things in the embodiment of nature - in the womanly form of dark beauty (a protagonist to our earnest protagonist). A relationship which moved in episodes sometimes volatile but sometimes no more than beautiful anoesis. A sensation – a sometimes enthralling sensation – without consequence. And sometimes a fire burnt inside both of them, and as fire finds fire, it became enraged. The flames entwined and jumped outside their orbit and the glow soothed them together in union and eternity. The end of these romances echoed the end of a war, with tears spilt not blood. They echoed the exhaustion at the end of a party. The end of participation in something strange; redolent of love but surpassing the intimacy of modern expectations of attachment. The Orphan was always left wondering what changed and what became of the energy of the initial burst. He always had to decipher this phenomenon. This revelation. And although the events passed over, they left him calm. With thoughts yet to materialise. He knew the wonder retreated but always remained.
A genius in the ether. With her hands in pockets. Calibrating imaginings. Avoid contrivance and rote convention. Fall into the fold which contours the soul. Fall into the words which don’t care, but caress the heart of the matter.
This is how the Orphan rolled. How he lived. At the intersection. He knew that where someone was in day, someone was in night. If someone saved, someone spent. For every debt there was a creditor. The plurality of the universe was bound in the axiom of its spirit. In the half-crazed moonlight, in the sanity of sunshine. In the open window into the half-ajar soul in the heartbeat of a moment. Forever at the apex of thought possible only in available knowledge, but for the Orphan the social approximation led him to find knowledge in the language. He knew as he emerged from meditative states his reality was not what happened within him, but what happened between him and the outside world. The Orphan was like anyone: interdependent. At the intersection between himself and the world he was merely the residue of an interaction. Everything known was known as itself, just as everything unknown will become known as itself as time progresses - it’s just the language changes. ‘This is its liquidity’, the Orphan thought to himself. This is what caused him to dance at the riverbank with Siddhartha; the physical world cannot move beyond itself, but the language can. The Indian Orphan knew this to be the absolute state of consciousness: language becoming its own objective of transformation. The wilderness of abstraction of the modern brand, of the signposting, of the epistemology, the superstition he encountered would sometimes disorientate him. He realised the compression of narrative meant he didn’t have to write figuratively or at length of reality, he could now move beyond the symposium with a brand evangelical to its word. A brand which captures the imagination, because nothing is real unless it allures. Language becomes its own objective: this was the radical conceptual leap which affronted him.
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