She stood between herself and the world. The world was made of dillydallying, ephemeral, out of this world conjectures such as intellectual flexibilities that stretched even to the questioning of their stretchiness.

She stood there, watching, waiting, waiting for a voice, waiting for the voice to answer the many questions holding still herself and the world.

She stood there watching and waiting for nights and nights, sleeplessly, through the coming and going of days—she did not even notice when years strode her paths past her. Five of years came and went, but she still stood watching and waiting for a voice.

In the passing of the first year, when a year strode her paths past her and she didn't notice it, that year she cried and cried and cried until her tears turned to something close to a stream.

When she saw that the questions struggled as her tear-stream waved back and forth, she increased the intensity of her crying. This time she cried until the complete passing of the first year because she saw that the questions were now waning under the streams of her tears which were now growing into rivers.

But something happened. The king of life, he was called Omnipot, and some other names which were too dreadful to utter. It was believed that anyone who went out of their way to utter those names developed an incurable stutter.

He, the king of life was the creator of the two realms and the ten commandments upholding the balance of the spirit world and the physical world. He, the king of life was none to wag his conscience to the sweetness of any tear. Tears are salty. It was commonplace for people with bad intentions to cry fake tears and use those tears to salt the consciences of their benefactors.

So he, the king of life called the fifth commandment which stated thus,” no man or spiritual shall in any circumstance whatsoever go against the fifth of the ten upholding the balance of our world. In the event that any breaks the fifth, his time shall be reversed to the very point before his falling short”.

She fell short of the fifth when she started to cry fake tears so that when they accumulate into a river or rivers, her questions will be swept away.

It is hard for anything to stand for long not to talk of for more than three years. But when you have questions but you don’t have answers your buttocks might become sour and light like nothing. There was nothing to sit about. Her soul was heavy with many waters. Waters lapping against the banks of her resolve eating it away ever every now and then.

She could only cry the water off her soul, but she refused. She thought what if she cried real tears until the questions are swept away and then other stronger stranger questions arise, how would she call up more waters that are stronger than the new questions supposing the new questions are stronger and stranger than the old questions?

In the fifth year, while it was halfway through her paths, she stooped on all fours and sniffed the foot scents of the past four years and the half of the fifth year. They smelt pungently of movement, of growth, of broken bottles that held wisdom shut, of passage, of time leaving its past but not forgetting its progressions.

When the smell filled all her insides and head and limbs and eyes, she cried not from her soul, but from the light of knowing that not all questions must be answered. She found the voice to tell omnipot of the light that struck her with time’s hand, and she walked away from her questions.



(C) Meir the Lucid