A Letter

The following is the contents of a paper I found wedged behind a TV in the lobby of the business building. Evidently, it was meant for someone else.

Dear Seth,

I hope this letter finds you well. We at the meetinghouse have missed your presence these last several months. You will be pleased to know that we have welcomed another member into our fold. She has taken on the name Valentinia in remembrance of the great teacher. She has an affinity for seeing things behind the curtain in a way few new students do. You will get along well with her whenever you return.

You will also be pleased to note the progress we have made in the compilation of your words into our first publication. We have worked diligently over these last few months to ensure that your wisdom is adequately contained and preserved. It has not been the same since you left. We all pray the highest authorities have seen it fit to preserve you so that your wisdom may continue to enlighten.

I am concerned with Paulus and his progress is developing his senses. We found out that he is more tied to the carnal than we thought and we cannot make progress until his inner alignment changes. Perhaps we were mistaken in allowing him into our circle. What is your advice for nurturing the development of eyes to see and ears to hear? We have tried walking in the path of the great teacher but have found our abilities lacking.

I also want to relay to you my own message for your benefit, though it hardly compares to the products of your erudition. I was impressed by my encounter with a street preacher recently to reflect on the nature of the divine. It seems even the loudest of the voices in this city cheering on behalf of the Father are as blind to the true divinity as their god is. Let us not forget what the great authors wrote long ago

“Their chief is blind; because of his power and his ignorance and his arrogance he said, with his power, ‘It is I who am God; there is none apart from me.’ When he said this, he sinned against the entirety. And this speech got up to incorruptibility; then there was a voice that came forth from incorruptibility, saying, ‘You are mistaken, Samael’ – which is, ‘god of the blind.’”

Let us not forget that the so called Father is but the lowest, rotting, fruit of the tree. May incorruptibility grant us knowledge and freedom from the illusions of this world.

With great respect and admiration,

Sophia

I can only wonder how this letter found its way behind a TV. I wonder, too, how old this letter is. Is this a group here in the city or is this a reference to some show or book?

The House With Narrow Windows

On a languid street corner near the old high-school was a house I was always fascinated by. It was a large house, with peeling paint, and narrow windows revealing bits and pieces of the rooms within. On the bus in the morning I could see a warm, incandescent glow illuminating a cramped kitchen, in the afternoon I could see the faded lettering on the sign out front. It may have once been a restaurant, or a small hotel, or some other business that had long since fled.

I imagined who must live there. An old man, worn by time. An austere life, a life defined by struggle. I imagined how grown up I would feel living that imagined life. I felt sad that it wasn’t mine.

On a forgotten corner of a narrow street that crossed the local bike path sat a house with narrow windows. I always thought it was an apartment. When I was young I took my bike out at the blue hour and imagined who must live there. A warm light glowed through the blinds, cutting through the cool blue atmosphere. I was barely a teenager then.

I imagined the young professional that must live there. He had game nights with his friends, he listened to grown up music and lived a grown up life. I imagined how mature and liberated I would feel living in a place like that. I felt sad that it wasn’t mine.

I got older. My life changed. My perspectives changed. I saw that house near the school again, and it looked run-down. I saw that house on the path, and it looked sterile. Where did the warmth retreat to? Where did that young professional go? Where did the austere old man end up? Did they ever live in those places?

I have never met the owners of these places. I don’t know their name nor their face. I never want to. The people who live there I already know and the lives they live give me life.