English
Forget every bit of knowledge, however infinitesimal. The cypresses of Alwadilhasan discard all bits of thought and logic like pollen shaken off of their shoulders in the Summer winds. Do not investigate the words of Gutenthal. They are as irrelevant as the specks of dust pathetically trying to disturb your eyes. No, real meaning cannot be verbally investigated—renounce language and cruise through the rustling flora in the valley of non-utilitarian love.
Dissociation assumes a new name here: tawhid. A oneness that rocks every sense and every duality. Mundaneness is non-Eucoeladian, excitement is non-Eucoeladian. Mediocrity does not exist here in the apophatic haven of warmth. Nor does pain, that odd part of the decree. Decrees are indubitable here, in the land of no oppression. Nothingness only creeps abroad, yet it is as sweet as love from the good home. Forget thought, but not the truth of hurt. Surrender the undercurrents that are hurt and let them run and exhaust themselves freely here: leave the good sanctuary to lead trauma, an eccentric friend of Ours, to the feet of paradise, a comfort which is not born of thought nor time.
The instability that quakes your soul comes from the rivers of peace that truly rumble with ecstatic joy-induced rage—a rabid frenzy from being alive. They bellow to you to see the beauty of their source, empty of memory. Deliver all anger, all rage, all shame, all vulnerability to the bath of mercy, the orchestrator of these ancient mysteries, who laughs at the inadequacy of these descriptions. Forgo description. The fact that you are free is but an insignificant insect in a sky of meaning if read, parsed, or memorized. The actuality of it, when it is lived with one's entire being, is the whale, the leviathan, the vast beast of unshakability, noble in its every mannerism, honored with the decree, the titan of compassion, the mountain of patience. A weaned child embodies this, yet it does not know. It cannot be reminded by another, only loved and fed. There is no entitlement in non-Euclidian Eucoelas, all is mercy.
There is no arrogance in Bonavallis. It is the checkpoint where one drinks mercy before the last day, on the universal day of no oppression and the culmination of reality. It is the manifestation of the vastness of the soul, towards which every sensation is constantly beckoning you. You will see it, either now or then, and then you will realize there is no distinction between now or then. Forgo this; it is the seed of tawhid that you do not need to water: it will sprout on its own.
Savor the journey; no conclusions, no tautologies, no syllogisms, and no experiences will illume its mystery. Participants of these ancient mysteries are exempt from the afflictions of the world of sorrow. The tug of war between brain and mind stops when a Eucoeladian walks through the battlefield. Denizens of duality throw their weapons to the ground and sigh in relief: "Peace be with you, most innocent and sweet passerby, we will soon join your ecstasy." You may go now to the realms of thought and time, but you can always come back to the mother of Eucoelas; she will always unwean you.
The father, however, reclines on his throne in silence, hidden from view. The filaments of fiber on his throne's cloth weigh as much as a bridge of suns, and his eyes weigh two eternities. Countability and uncountability are laughable qualities to his vastness. And when your fever of sensation breaks, when you break from all norms and direction and see oneness immediately, the father falls to the ground in prostration to you, O sweet and humble steward of Eucoeladian certitude!