In this incantation, I reflect on a young man who spent years ignoring a faint inner pull, conforming to the path laid out for him by those around him. One day, the whispers became too loud to ignore, prompting him to abandon everything he knew in search of isolation. He traveled far into a foreign land, eventually finding a secluded hermitage deep in the mountains. There, he withdrew completely from the world, even abandoning food as his body withered away. With each passing day, he felt a strange satisfaction, convinced he was finally on the right path. In the end, as sustenance ceased and darkness surrounded him, he realized he no longer needed the world or even his own body. He had finally found his unwakening, a place where nothing was left to seek or escape.
The young man had always felt a tug, a faint pull that whispered to him, telling him he was going the wrong way. For years, he ignored it, convincing himself that the path he was on was the right one because it was the one everyone around him walked. His home, his family, his friends—they were all there, living lives of quiet contentment, their days blending into one another like the soft hum of a lullaby. Yet, deep within, he knew that something was wrong, that he was out of tune with the melody that seemed to harmonize everyone else’s lives.
One day, the whispers became too loud to ignore, and he made a choice. He left it all behind—the home where he was born, the streets he had walked since childhood, the faces he had known and loved. He left the life that had been built for him, the expectations, the familiarity. He walked away from it all, determined to go as far as he possibly could.
He traveled for days, then weeks, until he reached a land where the mountains were high, the valleys deep, and the people spoke in tongues he could not understand. It was a foreign place, as far removed from his old life as he could have imagined. Here, in this land of towering peaks and hidden paths, he sought isolation. He found a small village nestled in the mountains, a place where the language was strange and the customs stranger. No one knew him here, and he did not seek to know them.
Time passed, and the people of the village began to change. They spoke more like him, thought more like him. Slowly, without him realizing it, the foreignness began to fade, and the village became familiar. He could understand them now, and they could understand him. The isolation he had sought slipped away, replaced by a connection he had not wanted. The whispers returned, more insistent than before. They told him it was time to leave again.
So he went deeper into the mountains, leaving the village behind. He found a secluded spot, far from any path or road, and there he built a small hermitage. It was a simple place, a cottage with walls thick enough to keep the world out. He made arrangements for meals and necessities to be brought to him, delivered through a small hole in the wall. Inside, he covered the windows with heavy black curtains, plunging his inner world into darkness. He never left. Day and night lost their meaning as he withdrew further into himself.
His body began to change. He watched it wither, his skin tightening over bones that grew more prominent by the day. His hair grew long, unkempt, a testament to his isolation. He ate less and less, and as he did, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. His ribs, once hidden beneath flesh, became visible, and with each day, he felt more certain that he was finally going in the right direction.
Then, one day, the food did not come. He waited, but it did not arrive. He did not eat that day. The next day, the food came again, and he ate without concern. His goal was clear—to escape from everything, even from the need for sustenance. He was resigned to a long internment, leading to what he called his “unwakening.”
But then, the food stopped coming. Two days passed. Three days. Still, there was nothing. Yet, he did not suffer. Instead, he realized that his eating had always been a choice, a decision he had made every day. Now, without the choice, there was no need. He was not afraid. He had already begun to disappear.
Days passed, and he never again turned on the light in his hermitage. There was no need, for he was no longer there. His body remained, but he had returned to himself, to the place where the whispers no longer reached. He had no need for a cottage in the mountains anymore, no need for the world he had once known. He had found his way, and it led him to a place where there was nothing left to seek, nothing left to escape from.
…