THE TORCH OF PLASMA (II)

One year later he was no more waiting for a ship-command, only for a port of call. The very little charge would be this in his pouch. He also knew that flowers would substitute swords in his left hand. He did not need any warden to advertise him of abyss, he perfectly knew that all the remaining way in this last rally, would for him be a traverse of the razor’s sharp edge.

So it was nor a time for swords neither for wardens on earth but là-haut, just under the belt of Orion, two pairs of eyes had been always looking after his steps and they went on doing so. He loved these, the eyes from his truly father and his truly mother, and he also loved their projection on earth, of another pair of eyes, still revolving around him, as the dog-warden warning him, on stormy days, about the abyss.

However, he had learned the trade well. He was able to sail on every sea and with any wind. He had rounded the Horn Cape and the Good Hope Cape. And there he learned he had so much loved the shadow of a penthouse pet for thirty two years and more. And his love had been so deep that it was now a part of himself, although recognising now its real shape, and valuing it at its lived measure: the Shadow, a petty tyrant.

Travels he did not made in his first youth, carrying the sword of justice, who knows, may be it would be now the time for them, carrying the rose of desire, closing a semi-circular way with its own reflection in the mirror that stays beyond infinite.

He knew well his two horses and all that pushed them, shaped like Phaeton’s chariot. He also knew that behind them it was a place for the Shadow, which would never be empty. And that his name, his truly name; this very name that would illuminate him on every travel to the deep of the self, would ever carry the surname of the Shadow.

He knew where the lightning that sources secret fire was hidden, with which he would give the Shadow a hope and the Way a cycle. He had stayed at the Sphinx, just as the Father had done before, he understood now its secret.

He had completed the travel and survived and overcome it. He had bathed at the plenteousness dam and he could face the supreme travel, the one of definitive mastership, the journey on the channel between Scylla and Caribdis, the one on shaken waters at Scapa Flow near winter solstice.

So, one year later, being himself the ship, it didn’t matter what vessel he would get. He didn’t mind which a post if the mirror that would reflect it was going to be the same. He was still awaiting for his time, knowing, like the Sphinx, that everlasting light means everlasting a Shadow.