Once upon a time, a long time ago, Casimiro woke up, while looking at a flame dancing on a candle, flickering with the breeze, while talking to his friends about his lost childhood, at a meeting for souls lost at sea as adults, without hope, without light. And after the meeting, someone new asked to speak, and since Casimiro led the meeting, he asked the group if she could speak, as consensus was reached, he told her she could speak. In that moment, waves washed upon the other shore, Casimiro woke up, empty inside of food, the light entered his soul, his unbearable life became light traveling across a room to make another person blink, but the magic was gone. The next day, he woke up, at twenty-one years old, and went completely mad, because to process truth after so many years of chaos, dysfunction, he could never explain to mother and father, to brother and friends, the meaning of this life, how he saw everything in a blue candle flame, during meditation on his own, all alone, he opened the cloud doors, to see the mystery, to see beyond this life, this solitary life, hopeless and without light. He could never explain why he slowly went mad, why his mind had to sink deep down inside a well to understand this world, for the whole of mankind, for the whole universe, for all things visible, and things invisible, for all things that are known, and things that are unknown, for this world of being, and one of emptiness, for Casimiro found the spirit known as breath, the breath of life and death.
Casimiro revealed the machine called Spirit to the world of humans but no one cared to look, or even to listen, for they came to get drunk, to lose themselves in games, to eat, shit, drink, piss, and sleep. Nothing beyond this world meant much to these people, for their belief in God could never sustain them, their incessant questions, their perennial doubts awoke like the flowers, but they could never see beyond clouds in their minds, for God was just a word to most human beings, and no matter the name, they could get no closer to miraculous life than a sunset at dusk, or a sunrise at dawn, though the sun never sets and never arises, unlike the mind that waits.
Casimiro waited to find his voice to speak flames from an inferno, from deep inside his bowels, the sword of illusion in one hand and an axe of both greed and hatred in the other to clear the minds of humankind of their desire for more, for the clouds were too dense for the doors to open wide to reveal their madness, their acceptance of games, of delusions within, which made normal people appear focused and strong, but they were misguided in their own perceptions, they could not see beyond the clouds within their minds, the clutter of judgments making them believe in their volition as will. If God did not oppose their actions, they believed their will was one with God, but they could never know after the seventh day, God rested, but his day was eternal for us as Homo sapiens, within a dream He saw all of His Creation, and He slept and He dreamt but could not intervene, this stipulation set by Him before He made both the Heavens and Earth, a challenge to listen and to wait for someone to wake Him up from sleep, but who could wake God up from dogmatic slumber? In His dream, he would laugh at the philosophers, who could not imagine beyond the length of nose beneath myopic eyes whose vision over time weakened with years passing before their very eyes, believing they knew truth, but they lacked certainty, and uncertainty lead them to death and the grave, never knowing of God, beauty, the good, the true, only what was valid, or what was invalid.
But time for God exists as purely amusement, all events happen once, and happen in one pulse, in one flash, one instant, and yet God continues to sleep, to dream, to rest, as written in the book. Casimiro did not want to have to wake up God, for to intervene, all time must cease for us, the creatures of the Lord made of flesh, blood and bone, who think, who speak, who pray using words from their minds, and sometimes, from their hearts, when they are most needful. Casimiro could see beyond this world, the light opened his mind widely as the cloud doors burst rain, thunder, lightning and storms. Casimiro was not afraid of the mischief behind the programming. The machine called Spirit was nothing more than this, a system to ward off evil spirits, mindless human beings with no concern for the welfare of God who rests and waits behind seven veils of mystical illusion, only a mind so great as to see beyond these could awaken the Lord. But the question arose, why would God need to rise from slumber to save us?
As Casimiro knew full well, there was no point in waking up the one human beings call God and other names of faith. He did not want to fight a medieval dragon, or find a unicorn, these imaginary creatures were no different to him than God who rests. After the seventh day, God woke up and the dream became..."on the eighth day," something Casimiro could know nothing about for his limited mind was like anyone else. Casimiro was not the Buddha, nor a saint, but just a thoughtful man, or a man full of thoughts, hardly a sensitive, caring and thoughtful man, but oversensitive, a careless, thoughtless son. His mother didn't know the monster inside her was just another boy, not the Satan to slay, to rid Earth of carnage, the horrendous vengeance of a man stuck inside memories of childhood. But she could not kill him, not without due process, an infant born abroad.
Casimiro was born in Bombay, India before it became known as Mumbai, a city of millions and millions of souls seeking release, to extinguish the soul, samsara, the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, but to be born again was never the same thing, unless, stillborn again, that may just qualify as rebirth before death, or death before rebirth, a stage of samsara. But who knew of moksha, who knew of samsara and reincarnation, who knew the soul was real, or were all but concepts, like dragons, unicorns, and mythical creatures other than God Himself, who imaginary or not, was a moot point in argumentation, but that won't stop people wasting time and money, making lots of money arguing about God. Casimiro kept mum. He felt antipathy towards antinomy. But it was not his place to judge philosophers nor the theologians who could not but argue as their theology was based on assumption, their basis, God exists, the very foundation for their life and studies.
Casimiro could not help but laugh at both sides, so certain to argue about things uncertain, their minds were limited, it was impossible to know except by faith, and faith is not knowledge, by definition, so. Money was to be made, entertainment value, for the sake of reason, or the sake of belief, each side presents its case, but who would know who won?
Magazines on the racks at the grocery stores made him wish he could leave this country and head south, past the border, along the equator, where time and toilet bowls stood still, allegedly, that is, to flush counterclockwise, or clockwise, or straight down, could it be possible, or is this conjecture, argue for or against the existence of God, Coriolis be damned, the force or its effects determined by factors other than rotation in given directions of planetary spheres, perhaps God was the same, or perhaps, like the cat inside Schrödinger's box, just the sleeping cat knew.
Analogies, simple or complex, entangled his story with theories, thirty years of zazen, sitting meditation, or the study of zen, from J.D. Salinger, Robert Pirsig, Dōgen to ancient Ch'an masters, Casimiro woke up, but it didn't make him a better person, no, he was ordinary, just a bit eccentric, but wound so tight, he sprung with each step as he walked, such was his character, he sought to find release, this world was much, too much for him to bear for long, he had nothing but time, unless something happened, but it hadn't, so time and youth were on his side. To watch him run, his side hustle, full of bustle, anger, locomotion, was nothing short of strange, but he did well to race long distance, marathons, as he was no sprinter, he lacked the grace and form to race in short distance, he didn't mind training, he became mentally fierce and determined, strong, aware and awakened.
Perhaps running woke him, gave him the solitude to think and feel dark thoughts, to look inside his soul to see his reflection, a pool of still water, but he couldn't explain to friends or family how his mind got this way, the path he took was his and his alone, he knew of the Marathon Monks of Mount Hiei, Japan, their single-mindedness, discipline and focus was just the opposite of the normal people that Casimiro saw, minds full of delusions, hatred, greed and desire, these monks pulled out the roots to the weeds of their minds so nothing but fresh soil awaited seeds in time to grow supple like trees, to stay limber in youth, and retire before mind and body became old, inflexible and stiff, this was society in a nutshell to him, nothing that he could do to slay the slate dragon, only to open up a shop to help people solve everyday problems, he would call the pop up, The Complaints Department. See if anyone would show up, you know they would, the world is just dying for just a little help, so Casimiro thought up another pipedream.
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