Immortal (仙). Man (亻) and Mountain (山). A being that remains above the mortal world, unblemished by this red dust. A being that wears man’s shell, their essence is that of a mountain– one of quiet strength amidst solitude. An Immortal depends on none other than himself and the Heavens with which he communes.
I am Man (人), but not Mountain (山). I cannot escape this red dust when I am part of it. I am human through and through. As such, I am bound to the same desires and shared nature– even as I carve out my own niche. I aspire to be a mountain yet I find my path blocked by companionship– a desire that I loathe.
In my earlier works, I wrote that I love humanity. Its form may change, but the essence will remain. It is this very essence that created the obligation for me to love people– the individual shards of this humanity. But I find people to be fickle, to be snowflakes that melt on my hand. I revile them for faults that aren’t entirely their own.
I prided myself on my tolerance for people, but I’ve failed to grasp its true meaning. To tolerate a person, you must be lenient towards them– the same way you’d treat a child. You must stomach their loathsome qualities, even as you wish nothing more to disassociate entirely. You must placate yourself even when you want to spit blood at them. Above all, you must be understanding– even when they lack that breadth.
When I write tolerance, I’m not referring to their beliefs. Nor am I referring to their viewpoint or their voice. What I write, is the small things. The flaws in their behavior glare at me, glowing harsher as time passes. My sanity frays when I’m subjected to this disgusting light. As much as I love people, I hate that halo of theirs just as much.
A person’s behavior is a symptom of their character. A person’s character is an integral part of themselves. Just as a branch can’t disown their leaves it bears, how can a person not owe a debt that their shards created? To tolerate, you must wear a smile even when your heart burns.
I recognize my expectations and standards as deviations, molded by my time in two countries. I cannot tell how much they deviate in relation to our current society. As a result, I cannot cleanly decide responsibility. Is it my expectations at fault or the irreverent being that stands in front of me? I’ve already dictated the start of my tolerance, and so its time to put its end in writing– lest I die before I vindicate myself.
Even if my air bears not the scent of Saffron but the air of gunpowder, the essence of filth remains– albeit in a different form. We walk amidst this red dust. We breathe in it, we live in it, and we are interred in it. You may wash yourself countless times, but it’s only a matter of time before the dust settles. A shard of myself loathes this reality, and the people that live in it– and I don’t blame it. If it could, it would take to the mountains in a heartbeat– to forsake this tiresome humanity.
After all, I may trade in sin– but I abhor those who share my craft. If I cannot get rid of the dust, I won’t let others bury me in it while I walk. Yet the rest of my being forbids this retreat, so let me write them. I invoke Islam, as I’ve given my covenant to Him. Our partners are fashioned from our ribs, and our parents are honored in the Qur’an. The sons of Adam عَلَيْهِ ٱلسَّلَامُ were never meant to live their lives alone, to cut off ties so callously. It is that instruction that binds me, lest I’ve had severed some ties long ago.
Even if I were to twist interpretations, a story exists of a man who already walked this path. A man that sought to exalt his Lord, yet robbed himself of that grace– seconds before his death. His solitude made him forget the ways of a civilized society. Grace was shown to him, but he buried that along with the lady that he murdered. The story of Barsisa still echoes in this world, up high in those mountains.
فَبِأَىِّ ءَالَآءِ رَبِّكُمَا تُكَذِّبَانِ
Which of the favors of your lord do you deny? (55:13)
Having people is blessing, even if it feels like a curse at times. I’ve seen these close ties yet remain estranged, but I still must recognize this. After all, have I not enjoyed this favor for the past 18 years of my life? Have I not experienced humanity? Have I not seen our brightest moments and darkest hours? To omit all that I’ve felt with my senses is no different than denying this favor. So my Lord, I deny nothing.
Even if I threw my convictions away, I cannot take up a home among the mountains. In the tapestry of humanity, we’re bound to each other as threads. I know few people, but those few are tied into entire patches– so how could I sever it all? I may not hear it, but I know my name is being mentioned somewhere. I know that I see only a fraction of these threads, so how could I cut off that which exists out of my sight?
I may succeed in cutting others off, but I can’t rip myself out of this tapestry. The blood I bleed is red, a human’s shade. Without this tapestry, there’d be no proof of my existence– even in memory. To become a mountain, one must sever it all. To create a line that can be felt, not seen. You may exist among man, but you are not of them. To be Immortal, is to become their dependance– unmoving and enduring. I cannot exist without my humanity, so I remain human.
Man (亻) may acquire the qualities of a Mountain (山), but the essence of an Immortal (仙) won’t appear in this world. Tolerance is a fleeting virtue, one by design. It’s like the dust that flies into our eyes, be it grains or entire clouds. Yet, the fact remains– I’ve known more people who’ve made me blink than those who hadn’t. If it were just that, then it’d be a part of life. After all, blinking is an unconscious act. An act that gains consciousness with the slightest abnormality. It’s one thing to enjoy company, but its another to know that they’re the reason why your eye itches. A single flutter of the eyelids would suffice, but you can’t expect a man to let his eyes die– to let those grains scratch his pupil.
Now, I’m willing to tolerate some of you– to give closure to the few shards of sentiment I still have. Even then, what good is a man that can’t improve onto themselves? Let time ease the strain on my eyes, either in your absence or in your tempering. As for the rest of you, let your purpose soothe my eyes. Once it is done, you’ll depart on your own– so why quibble over a matter that’ll resolve itself? After all, our existence is a temporary one. We will come and go like the dust that clings to our shoulder.
Over the course of my five year journey in India, I’ve met countless faces– yet only a few still speak. In the one year that marked my return, I’ve met some faces– but I’ve already forgotten their voices.
I have lived for eighteen years, yet here I am planning for a death I know nothing of.
“I may die today, hunched over this laptop before I finish this. My death is certain, the question is: when? My life is not a promised one.” These are some of the thoughts that recur over and over in my head, the fact that I know nothing. There are some goals that I must accomplish before death overtakes me, so let me name them as my ambition. I may have my desires, but this knowledge has already muted them.
I carved traces of myself behind in both past and present, but it seems that I’m not suited for such bonds. I am a traveler, not a monolith. If I am going to leave an imprint of myself, then it will be my footprints. If my conscious actions have failed me thus far, then I’ll let my ego rest. I may control where my feet land, but I don’t decide on the print it leaves behind.
Surely something of worth will come from this. After all, I have an entire lifetime to walk to my home. To the earth that’ll swallow my corpse whole. I may have houses, but I have one home– one that death opens. Whether my path is sparse or plentiful of people, I’ll live. I may not be a mountain, but I’m already accustomed to their silence.
Author’s note:
It’s almost two months since I started writing this essay and here I am wrapping it up on my birthday, three drafts later. What makes this a bit funny is that each draft was completely different, even through they all shared the same name. As I was wrapping this version up, I found the first draft that I completely forgot about– a draft that got the final line for this version.
The concept of a Immortal was inspired by a book called I Shall Seal the Heavens (我欲封天), written by Er Gen (耳根). It’s one of the best Chinese novels I’ve ever read, so I’d definitely recommend y’all to read it– I’m going to reread it again once I have more time. It’s a habit of mine to read Eastern novels, so expect more of this.
It’s my first time directly invoking Islam in my writing, but I’ve been weaving it into my writing before. Unless someone holds the same patchwork of Islamic knowledge as me, you’d be hard-pressed to find all of those references. This won’t be the last time I invoke my faith, given how well it worked here.
In Ego and Death, I wrote that my writing would remain neutral in terms of Religion. After ten months, it’s time for this rule to be amended. Originally, this was established to guard any future controversy by dealing with religion as a general concept– to refrain from invoking a particular faith.
Now that I face less restrictions and developed a better understanding on these topics, its new interpretation is this: “My words shall neither promote a religion nor shall it disparage a religion.” In addition to this, I move to strip this provision of its binding nature– to turn it into a guideline that most of my works abide by.
The definition of ‘Religion’ is board and far-reaching, so I can’t let my hands be overly affected by this. I don’t have anything else to say, so lets end this off. As always, congratulations for reaching the end of this essay.