Are The Shrouds Counted, Are Not They? by J. W. Cassandra

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Are The Shrouds Counted, Are Not They?,
by J. W. Cassandra

It is said, all begins with the shrouds. And all ends with the shrouds. And if the shrouds are the hallmarks of beginning and end, then between this two endpoints everything that exists, arises, manifests, sets in motion, is projected into time, one becomes a subject, an object, a doer or bearer of some actions, or anything else, one becomes that, or becomes the performer of that in covering of the shrouds, in their blessed or unblessed safeguard. And one puts on a mask for all this. Because, he arrived to the masquerade ball of phantoms, where he changes his shrouds and masks as it is used to be done with handkerchiefs…

And one hides behind resounding phrases; symbols and labels denote all, that he is himself and all that he does. Such, perhaps, one of the most characteristic symbols is the “sub rosa,” which means “under the rose,” and the monks secretly whispered their secrets to each other first, under a round-shaped window, adorned by a rose, later under a rosette, namely, a rose-window. And even in the Middle Ages, nothing remained a secret what was whispered “sub rosa”…

And nowadays, even less, because they avoid yet the appearance that they would do anything. Nevertheless, they pursue their evil-doing willingly, and hide behind their masks and shrouds even more willingly.

This shroud is interesting as such: it inspires a deceptive sense of safety, it deludes one with illusion: one never has to take responsibility for anything. The mask hides perfectly, the shroud enshrouds, the evildoer or transgressor can do anything behind them with impunity.

And then the shroud falls: first a tiny, strange thought-thorn rises into the mind of man in the thickest darkness of the night. But no matter how tiny, it strikes deep, nests into it, and then it keeps urging, stabing, „And if there is reckoning?” Then arrogance sweeps it away, „Oh, in no wise!” But the thorn is already struck and doing its job. It keeps striking deeper and deeper, nothing takes it out, every movement pushes it just deeper and deeper. And then its surroundings are already inflamed, a vortex of feverish thoughts sweeps the man in the wild gallop of his mind. „What if reckoning still comes? If the shroud falls off? No one came back, who passed away, no one tells it, and the dead do not sing…”

„What if the reckoning comes?” The thought stirs up stinking sludge again and again, on the ground of the mind.

And man is now poisoned: he cannot be set free, for everything is futile, if he must go for ever, and there awaits the Face, the naked… And the Eye keeps watching. It gets to your core, that you know: it sees! Everything. And you know: you are guilty… Prayer does not help. Donation does not help. Alms what you throw to the beggar do not help, and you know knowing, he will drink them away.

It doesn’t help if you don’t think of it. It will return really only then,and then the depth will open, that will you pull down. You stole. You cheated. You lied. You killed. You were proud. You are an assassin. Even if you only had the idea of them… You are a coward. You ravaged. You treaded on everything and everyone. You engendered strife, deliberately. You sinned. And if you send these all away from you, shuffle them off, jump, dance, sing in yourself, it looks just like the assassin would scrub the blood that adhere to his hands. Nothing is seen anymore, only he sees it. His own blood had already flowed, but he is still scrubbing his victim’s blood. He doesn’t have a hand even anymore, but he can still see the blood adhering to it…

And when at the endpoint the mask falls down, the shroud falls off, one does face his unveiled sins. As many sins, so many shrouds… And the sinner is mortally afraid on the shroud-hill, as high as a mountain, and he knows: the shrouds are counted

The shrouds are always counted, at each endpoint. There is no exception, ever. The shrouds are counted…

There are those who suffer this torture. Legal enforcement by the sinners hidden behind the shrouds. Confiscation of property. Deprivation of liberty. The taking away the right to make decisions. The total treading on. The murder of the innocent.

The question in them is burning hope, „Are the shrouds counted, are not they?”

The question in the sinners is the living fear, „Are the shrouds counted?”

Yes, shrouds are always counted at all endpoints. There is no exception, ever. The shrouds are counted…

02/11. 2020., by J. W. Cassandra

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J. W. Cassandra

About the Author: J. W. Cassandra

I’m a teacher and a registered author either, at Artisjus as a writer and a poet in Hungary. I love forests, butterflies, flowers.


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