Open [English]

The way is open now.

Ascend the stairs of your tower, all 1001 of them, to the highest point. From the highest window, you peer out over the mountains, you look down upon their eternally white summits. And behind them, the morning sun sets the sky afire. Is this what you’ve sought? The red orb climbs through the spheres of the now blue firmament and rises, high, high above your head, high, high above the shimmering spire of your tower. You curse the tower, the master builder, the slaves. You curse yourself, and 1001 steps’ descent to a final defeat of a final hope. Briefly, you sit on your throne, digesting the bitterness of failure. All are silent, mortally afraid of incurring Your wrath. But the silence stifles, the throne room has become a prison.

The way is open.

You will rise and gaze over your gathered subjects. I am not them. They will be silent. And in that deathlike silence you will leave the throne room, the castle, the valley. The trees are blossoming, the fields swell, but you will not notice, your eyes fixed on the horizon.

Still we are apart.

The way is open.

You will come to me.

It is raining, wind howls through the pass like a blind god. The ice creeps out through the pores of the stones, the path clad in a web of silver. The lines throb like glowing veins under the grey sky. They will show you the way, urge you on. I am not them. You will place your feet, there where it might be predetermined. With every step, the path crunches like crystal leaves. Every footfall becomes a deep, heavy wave to the shore beyond. At the end of the pass, you will peer out over de slope before you, the bed of the horizon.

The way is open.

It will be night when you descend. Beneath the clear black sky, a desert stretches out. You will fall on one knee, run your hand through the fine grey sand. Shards of emerald shimmer on the dustwaves, a mirror of the star-strewn black sea. Undulations of glittering powder stick to your feet as you wade on. And at the centre there stands a woman. Sudden gusts of wind tear at the rags in which she is clothed. “Know you the way?” you will ask, while emerald eyes stare back. She raises an arm, and disperses like an icy breath in the night. I am not her.

The way is open.

The grey light of the small hours reveals a marble façade. The immense wooden doors stand ajar. While you take in the angles and branches and leaves of the woodcarving, you will enter. In the hall is a man, his cowl pulled low over his face. He offers you his hand, and you will take it. I am not him. He leads you through the galleries. In the primordial walls of sandstone niches are hollowed out, the edges dulled by the years. A rusted bronze angel, missing one wing; A singing bowl, ruptured; A red piece of coarse linen; A caravan, abandoned and buried; A sliver of a melody, warped by a persistent wind; A predator’s tooth, worn down; A small assembly of caribou, travelling over the barren ground; The wind, rushing through scrawny shrubs; Fire; Rain; A sunset on an empty sky.

The way is open.

Upon arrival at the end of the galleries, the man halts. He waves you farewell, knowing you will continue. The galleries round the temple, but you will not return to the doors. The last niche gives way to a darkened corridor. You will travel the way, not seeing, but with determined steps. Faultlessly, you will feel the corners and curves, until you have arrived in the heart. The darkness flees before the light of the sun, now right over the opening in the roof. With cautious steps, you will approach the centre. On the ground is a broken hourglass, its evanescent contents scattered over the earth. It is there I am.

You heard the tolling of the bell, shattering itself, never to return. The confused vortices of a broken sea cast themselves upon you. In the middle of a road, open and closed in all directions, like a dot around a circle around a sphere around a