Her Name

My name is…

Well, my name is a string of letters and a plucked chord of pronunciation. As important as names are, I will let you find mine, for I had to search long and hard for it. Hidden were all the names, lost was mine in all that were hidden. My name is my story and you know that not yet.

The Sun rose and set, the moons shrank like the tide. The name for humanity was Am. I am, you see? The body of Am is renewed with the moon, and so our minds rise and set with the Sun. In the time of Reminding we were taken our names. We would have called it a thieving, or an Armageddon, but he had not the names for our toes. Names are endless, though. Neither are they born nor destroyed. Simply are they translated.

Our names for the stars were scattered into Heaven, our names for the animals and the plants were slaughtered and buried. And so, what was once called the stars, and what was once called the animals, became one. What was once referred to as I and specified as Am became no different than You, All, and Are.

Names, you see, do not exist in our Todays and our Yesterdays. Tomorrow without its letters ascends from this page, and this page without its letters descends to original potentiality. The name of my translator, the author of this sentence, he has a name just as I have a name just as Tomorrow has a name. But we learned in the time of Reminding that names are feeble creatures. They like to come and go.

And so, these names like Now, Later, Never, Always, and Whenever become obsolete. They can exist Anywhere. And with this power of Words, names have slipped through what Is and Can Be, what is Fictional and what is Truth, and has merged to become all one thing.

Which has no name!

I am a character in the world named Abaddon, you must know. My author is not my creator, for my name exists Always. My author is simply my conduit. A man of Am who takes from the Air these words and hands them over to You. I am of both your world and your dreams. I am Fiction, hear my Truth.

Exists Abaddon in a world after the Reminding. We were Am, Humanity, Man; Body, Soul, Spirit; Dream, Mind, Manifestation. We were called so many things. I will refer to them all using the name Am. Am was searching through darkness using the light of Desire. He would find and then grasp, that is the nature of Am. He found, then, what he could not find for so long: his God.

Now the name God reverberates through this paper and rattles your skull. But when Am found Him, he did not speak with voice nor hear with ear the secrets that sent him into a dark place of Reminding. A state of limbo that paralyzes the mind in order to purge the spirit.

Earth became just another star. The Sun fell into the darkness that Distance carries on its shoulders. The Moon was but another name that we lost when we left our mind.

Now, names bring manifestation to the chaos of creativity. The author knows this best, for the conundrum of his thoughts are not beautiful until put under the body of words. So too are we all body. The Reminding was our leaving of body, of the world Am, and our return to chaos. Pure, electric bliss was no different than the grimiest dismay. We were children who laugh and cry at once, ignorant of the difference between the two.

For so long we existed here.

Abaddon was shaped as the world that we left. Am. We were put into creative mind and then given a body. We had our names back, and for the first time we knew what they meant. We had never known what the Wind was before the Reminding. Air, we called it. Temperature was another name, but we knew not what we were really saying, we simply invented new words to keep comfortable. Comfort, even, what is that?

Digressing, I tell you that names are important. Not in what a name is, does the power lie, but in what a name is referring. Do not become so fascinated by the finger which points to miss the direction of the pointing, but rather use it and see beyond it into the horizon where the finger is now out of view. Fiction is false only if read in the world of Am. Abaddon, though, is the world of no names and wordlessness. Suchness is the word for all. In suchness, in body, in Am.

I Am Isis O’cyrus, the daughter of He who brought Namelessness. The Poet was He. His story I speak, for his story we all live. His death was our birth, for he laid the world down into Abaddon with his still-warm body. Here, we exist, waiting for our names to be read.

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