What your mind sees when you close your eyes marks the entrance to an endless universe: your imagination.
It__ so the stories go that the Ginen tell. If you find a beautiful fairmaid swimming in the river, her fish tail flashing; if you follow her down into her water home with her, she will make the water like air so you can breathe. But then she__l ask you, playful, You eat salt, or you eat fresh? And if you say salt, she will let you go back home, but if you say fresh __t__ my business,_ he said. Pouted. Looked at the ground.If you only eat unsalted food, fresh food, we believe you make Lasirèn vexed, for salt is the creatures of the sea, and good for the Ginen to eat, but fresh__resh is the flesh of Lasirèn, and if you eat that, it__ pride. You__e trying to make yourself as one of the lwas. Makandal never eats salt. He, a living man, giving himself powers like a lwa. That__ why he couldn__ hear the voice of the lwas.
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It__ so the stories go that the Ginen tell. If you find a beautiful fairmaid swimming in the river, her fish tail flashing; if you follow her down into her water home with her, she will make the water like air so you can breathe. But then she__l ask you, playful, You eat salt, or you eat fresh? And if you say salt, she will let you go back home, but if you say fresh __t__ my business,_ he said. Pouted. Looked at the ground.If you only eat unsalted food, fresh food, we believe you make Lasirèn vexed, for salt is the creatures of the sea, and good for the Ginen to eat, but fresh__resh is the flesh of Lasirèn, and if you eat that, it__ pride. You__e trying to make yourself as one of the lwas. Makandal never eats salt. He, a living man, giving himself powers like a lwa. That__ why he couldn__ hear the voice of the lwas.
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As survivors and procreators, we unravel stories that at their root are not dissimilar from the habitual behaviors seen in nature. But as beings who know they will die we digress into episodes and epics that are altogether dissociated from the natural world. We may isolate this awareness, distract ourselves from it, anchor our minds far from its shores, and sublimate it as a motif in our sagas. Yet at no time and in no place are we protected from being tapped on the shoulder and reminded, __ou__e going to die, you know._ However much we try to ignore it, our consciousness haunts us with this knowledge. Our heads were baptized in the font of death; they are doused with the horror of moribundity.
Oh, had I, weak and faint of speech, words to teach my fellow-creatures the beauty and capabilities of man's mind; could I, or could one more fortunate, breathe the magic word which would reveal to all the power, which we all possess, to turn evil to good, foul to fair; then vice and pain would desert the new-born world!It is not thus: the wise have taught, the good suffered for us; we are still the same; and still our own bitter experience and heart-breaking regrets teach us to sympathize too feelingly with a tale like this.
Not every story is true. And sometimes the things that were wicked become the things that save us, and the things that were good doom us to misery and pain.
The reason for evil in the world is that people are not able to tell their stories.
I spoke of the tragic illusion of perpetuity, but, no, my friends, it is a comic one. The ludicrous plot in which we are all trapped. The ancient Greeks referred to plot as mythos, attributing the random drift of human affairs to some sort of unknowable but glimpsable divine motion, attempting to attach a certain grandeur to it, the delusion of meaning. But we are characters who do not exist, in a story composed by no one from nothing. Can anything be more pitiable? No wonder we all are grieving.