Little Thinker (5)

I thought about how to free my brain from its life time sentence in my skull. Should I disclose to someone else this secret that was given to me by the future me, and demand help? Or would I have a disappointment as happened with the interpretation of my dream? There was only one way to learn: Try.

I penned a poem and read it to everyone in the literature class. If anyone is interested, we could set out to this adventure together:

In a spherical bone,

Darkness in me and alone.

Oh human, deliver me,

Depressed I am in you head, believe me.

A brain in the grasp of every man,

Free brain is the quality of a real man.

As I was reading my poem, there were giggles in the class. Some even mocked me. Nevertheless, everybody was silent at the last two lines. When I was finished, everybody was applauding, but my eyes were looking for someone whose eyes were shining with my secret message. Few stared at me for a while. I asked myself "is it what I am looking for?"...

No one came to me during the break; not about the poem, at least. I added a negative "is it" to me previous positive "is it". Maybe I had thrown my message bottle into the wrong ocean. One way or another, I felt compelled to venture this quest, because my poem was reflecting the moaning of my own brain, before anyone else's.

After school, I rushed to the bookseller. I showed my poem. He smiled. He asked "What did the futuroscope show you?" I thought he already knew, but apparently what you see stayed with you only. I told him how I ascended with a shuttle through a book, how I met my future self in a strange space and the secret whispered to me in the end:

"Because those who imprison their brains to their skulls imprison the knowledge to books, whereas the book of universe is legible to the entire body."

He explained how in the ancient times of limited knowledge, everything was taught to people, and so how a holistic view was present of human and the universe, but that with the tremendous increase of information, rather analytical and partial perspectives have dominated. He indicated the equivalence of the religious secludes who deny the worldly life and the scientists who reject religion totally about their deficient approach to existence. He shared that my poem reminded him of the ancient philosophers, and that the definition of perfect human in the old times fostered the development of all faculties of a person, and a human was seen as a mirror image of the universe. All these clarified a complication of mine:

"Those who imprison the knowledge to books, who imprison their brains to their skulls, who reduce the universe to only what they observe and control, etc. etc. etc. are all descendants of the same mentality. Since they cannot deliver their brains from their skulls, it rots there and poisons them."

Disturbed by my words of adolescent rebellion, the bookseller wanted to restrain me:

"Slow down, slow down. Correct starting point doesn't necessarily mean correct route. Yes, they are all descendants of the same mentality, but you'd better name this fact as captivity rather than poisoning. After all, the fruits of this approach of theirs represents certain aspects of the truth."

"Good but, they impose to the new generations their approaches as the only possible explanation?"

"Then, you are going to answer God's call to contemplation, and set out to infinitely many unbounded journeys."

"People can't stand such journeys..."

"Contemplation is a crown placed on your head by God. No one can take it away from you unless you take it off yourself."

Little Thinker (4)

It was as if I was in a rocket. Suddenly, I started ascending with wild shaking and roar. Upon looking outside through the window, I realized that I had taken off from a flat, white field. As the distance increased, it became easier to figure out places and shapes. But I couldn't believe what I saw. These were sentences written with buildings in the shape of letters. I remembered the strange, gigantic figures in the fields in South America, but these sentences were quite literally written in a language I could read.

The more I ascended, the more words and sentences I could see. All of a sudden, a thick layer of fog covered everywhere. Nothing was visible. As I was starting to feel nervous, things cleared once again, and I saw words and sentences, similar to those before. With a bit of attention, I reckoned that these sentences were telling a life story. I was bewildered, and just then, again the same thick fog covered everywhere. Then again, more sentences...

It looked like I was ascending through the pages of a book, as if ascending in the seven layers of hte heavens. Bored of not seeing an end, I was asking myself when this flight would end, when an abrupt darkness sank. It was like the long nights of winter.

At last, the dark faded, and I saw my name embossed in golden letters on a burgundy cover. This book was my book. My life story... And I had gone through it without reading...

After leaving the book, I felt a void and lightness as if in space. Looking out, I saw others floating in this space like me. How had they come here? Were they my imagination or real part of the future I was seeing with the futuroscope? I was asking myself if I could speak to them, when I heard someone say: "come on out!"

I felt lost between fear and surprise. Was it the book seller calling me back or was it a real sound coming to me from the space? Stuck in my seat with these questions, the gate of my vehicle opened, and I saw her. "Come on out!" she invited with a mild smile. Was there air in space? But perhaps, this was a different place.

Hey, wait, wait. The person who spoke did so without moving her lips! I spun my head towards her, and I witnessed myself screaming without opening my mouth.

"What are you doing? Shh, shhh." She grabbed me by my arm and pulled "let's go for some visit". I guess, we were friends now...

One by one, we stopped by other shuttles. Without an exception, they were all sleeping. "They don't even know that they are here", my friend explained.

"Why not?"

"Because those who imprison their brains to their skulls imprison the knowledge to books, whereas the book of universe is legible to the entire body."

This answer actually confused me more. The brain was already created in the skull, and it was not us who had placed it there nor was it us who had designed the skull like a prison. Plus, knowledge is stored and transmitted by books. What does it mean, "books becoming prisons"? And I had heard the concept of book of universe, but this was the first time I was hearing reading with the entire body. Also, if these other people had imprisoned their brains, let's wake them up and save them; why are we staying silent? And, am I too different from other people? Why am I awake?

"Enough, enough; slow down" reacted my friend. I suppose I was voicing my questions too loudly without realizing; and of course without opening my mouth.

"Do you remember how you came here?"
"Yes. By the futuroscope."
"Do you know who I am?"
"...?"
"What had the book seller told you?"

I pondered. There was only person who could talk to me without moving her lips and whom I could talk without opening my mouth. Myself! In fact, the book seller had told me that what I would see was myself. So, I was meeting my future self!?!? I mean, I was answering in the future the questions I was forming in the present...

Then, what was the book I had flown through? Was it the book I would author? Then, why was there my life story?

"Every person writes a book by their deeds. Everybody is an author; and their book is going to be handed to them after death."
"So, writing is not necessarily done by hands?"
"Exactly. Just like thought is not exclusively happening in the skull... And just like reading is not done only by moving your eyes over the letters..."

Little Thinker (3)

I had entered the street where the used book sellers were flocked. The silence of the books and the ascetic moods of the shopkeepers made me feel like I am being sucked into a spiral in time. I let my steps free. And my eyes took this moment to escape for a sightseeing across the shelves. Then, a neat work of calligraphy drew my attention. I approached the writing, and much like a cartoon character, I started sliding, climbing and jumping over the curved and extended letters. And I scurried through the shortcuts provided by the long scarves of the letters. Then, I took a moment to name myself "the letter explorer".

The voice of the shopkeeper zoomed me out of my fun among the letters: "you want to try?" I said "why not?", and I grabbed the paper and pen with an eagerness, sharply contrasting with my nonchalance towards them at school due to obligations. "Think of the road map of a butterfly being hurled in windy weather, and let your hands free", he said. "The inspiration receptivity of your calligraphy depends on its ability to dance with your heart"

In the air of an adolescent who have barely licked any knowledge, I blurted "it wouldn't be beautiful". "You cannot decide the beauty or ugliness of what comes out of your pencil. Your job is to hold it. Don't interfere with the job of the owner of the wind." I couldn't help smiling. Suddenly, I thought of the time waves that I had seen with my futuroscope; the letters of the destiny inscribed with the ink of time.

"Are you a poet?" I asked.
"I compose", answered the bookseller. I couldn't figure out whether he meant he composes poems or he writes compositions. He continued, without my inquiry:

"If I see a poem, I compose a poem, if I see a story, I compose a story, if I see an idea, I compose an adage."
"So, you must be a keen observer?"
"I guess you could say that. You know, history repeats itself. When you look into the future, you see the past. Instead of a kind of weather forecast, if you treat your observations from the futuroscope as meanings in search of a body, then you can be their mother, and bring those orphaned meanings into the life through your pencil."

It seemed that this bookseller was part of the same mental gang as I was. We passed to a yard through a door at the back of his shop. He showed me a giant futuroscope. I had never seen one like it. "This is custom made. You can't see another one anywhere else," he stated. "So, have look at it. Let's see if there is a poem, a story or something else in your lot!"

I was confused. If I saw a poem through the futuroscope, and wrote it, that wouldn't be mine! I couldn't possess something that belonged to someone else. And, if I saw a long poem, I wouldn't be able to keep it in my memory! As I was busy with these thoughts, the bookseller placed a kind of helmet on my head. "This is to record your inspirations." I couldn't control my tongue, and uttered "what the...". But it was all true, in flesh and bone. But I still wondered if my observations would really belong to me.

"Now, you are going to look into your own past and future. This is something only you can do. You are going to behold your inner world. What you see is you."

And I ventured into my own tunnel in time...