A Humble Letter

by | JBE, Volume 1

My dearest friend, you are a cashmere butterfly upon a flower’s crest. My thin fingers shake as I lead them across the paper because I fear my own rashness will spill the ink and smudge this beautiful letter of wisdom.

I have been to the Center of the Earth. I have ventured below charcoal maps of great explorers – records superficially hollow in comparison to my voyage.

A miracle worth protecting. I have been to the Center of the Earth. But because the kingdom of men is founded by fathers of reason, where your life rests within the confines of science, I cannot do but enlighten the way. You are jailed inside a cubicle, bounded by the very mind that has sworn to ward off deception.

A technician’s invention is the result of engineering mature knowledge into a cog machine. But childlike naivety is the only drill able to impale the Earth’s crust. Deeper than the ocean’s floor dwell chambers of undiscovered secrets. The noxious pride of mankind crumbles there like a house of cards. Therein a man cannot endure the immense pressure. A flair of female love is required… Of devotion that melts rocks. Softness moves mountains. I possess it, for I overcame my earthly dichotomies. You have it too. You were a child once. All people had been before a begrimed seed was planted into their mind.

This feminine power is beyond language. Beyond the separation of gender that begets artificially later in society. It is not a coin side’s quality. It is not women’s belonging and men’s lack. They intersect and form an unimaginably treasured force. It permeates throughout the entire Universe. How? In the form of an unalloyed feline beast. Unbounded and undeniably forgiving. It resides in all alive. But why – why look this feral cat into the eye?

Because the presence of love splinters all shields. It shatters the realm of men, disarming our hatred. What can one’s sturdy paradigm do against such reckless love other than lay down the sword? If love is possible, then anything is. You are possible. You exist. And I love you for that. ★

Hence, I repeat to you bounded not by literature nor metaphors: I have been to the Center of the Earth. This statement shall be taken literally. In the wholehearted implication of the word. Imagine the vast beginnings of an ocean; one that certainly deserves to be named Mediterranean more than any other surface of water. Imagine waves splashing onto steep cliffs at the shores. Above the crashing tides shines an iridescent light. It warms your skin like a good tale’s ending. This massive cavity, omitted in maps of honorable navigators, is completely sealed in Mother Earth’s womb. What indeed parts your lips, more than forests of fossilized mushrooms, where light grows dim, or verdant thickets extending along the seas, is knowing that you have been swallowed into the Earth’s belly. You have trodden beyond encyclopedic knowledge.

The music guides you. Do you notice? You live in a limitless reality. Whatever boundary you construct is a lingering self-created thought. There is a paradise beyond.

The feline beast is there with you. It lurches through a bush. It bares claws like knives, and they slash you open. As you recognize your heart is bleeding, you attempt to work up a courage to scream. The Mother Earth’s phantom overwhelms you with intimacy, to which you cannot help but breathlessly surrender. Isn’t this your deepest wish; one you treasure inside a locker; one you keep stashed under a pillow? To surrender to the mystery… To perish into a steam and later be dispersed into nothingness… For your beliefs to be broken, for they are too grueling and energy demanding to keep up… You wish for life to hear you, whatever that means, and thereby to take you under. You thereby admit it. You let Nature wash over: May men’s petty nations tear themselves apart. May space conquerors seek answers to Her mysteries among stars. You slump to the Center of the Earth. You shower in Mother Earth’s embrace, and nothing can sink teeth into you. No danger prevails over Her valiant guard. Her embryo comes out unscathed.

Oh, it hurts…

It hurts how madly is your heart orgasming with Hers!

The music is here for you. Open the door. Let it in. I am here too. Surrender. We are not abandoning you. We are you. Come to the Center of the Earth, and I promise love will grant you a haven. You need not worry about rope ladders, knotted cords, nor grappling irons. My friend, you pay no heed to a technician’s equipment.

But how, then, will you reach the Center of the Earth?

I must believe you are a butterfly. Your cashmere wings will rise above this puzzle. Truth is, you are already here in the Center. Right now. Reading this letter. You have written this letter to yourself. You are sending broken shuttles of information to yourself. Every single word will reach you, but mere fragments of the message will cohere:

Long you seek the philosophers’ stone but in some extraordinary sense, you are the stone itself. Not a shore has washed up this flaming red mineral, but still, you look high and low, leave no rock unturned. The world does not have it. You brought it upon your birth. Therefore, this letter comes without a map. If I had given it to you, you would have followed it. And it would have led you astray. A map diverts attention into the wind. You blithely believe it. Instead, you need to follow your breath. Go along:

Place a hand on your chest.

Listen closely. Be rapt by the beat.

You are the philosophers’ stone!

Do you hear it now?

Therein beats the flaming red mineral.

All along, it was your heart.

Keep the hand there. Your body is synonymous to a singing orchestra, to an Aztec temple, to a living galaxy. It replicates marine life’s diversity. I snatch glimpses of deep-sea fish schooling. Of tiny blood cells spawning. Beside them wave rows of coral reefs. Your temple’s blood pumping. Within you rests a Pocket Universe. I love you.

Come to the Center of the Earth; come deeper where cetaceans of unimaginable sizes cross seas, where a rainbow sun blazes hot even at the darkest of hours. Nothing binds you in reaching the apex. You are reality itself.

Come to the Core.

Therein I await you, beyond sextant optics’ reach.