The Author

Photo by Miles Loewen on Unsplash

The Author

Once Follower, reader of sorts, taking Quill in hand


Sitting on the mountaintop, contemplating existence, observing the storylines, told, and untold. With every breath, a new scene, clearing palette given the same, the Author witnesses an unfolding of realities from past to future sense.

A gust of wind, more like a horizontal cyclone, tornadic proportions sweeping through valley’s gorge, all the while conversing with Smokey Joe, the Author remains observant. Witnessing townships, planets, creative existence birthed and reborn, breathing in familial traumatic treasures collective embrace, breathing out universal love cleansing palate, expatiate painful feeling of sorts.

Wetting quill’s tip salivary kiss, sharpening gaze over life’s basin, preparatory involvement, prior re-writing story retracing creative tale, through the thick and thin, darkened shadow of death, recounting and recanting thus before.

Firstly a great fear enters a trade of thought, consuming our narrative, telling false tales of comets, cupids, and big dippers taught to us by dictatorships and dogmatic control. The Prince spelling out as Machiavelli retorts, creating illusions, gaining control, binding subjects into submission, and servitude to mass consumption, sickness prevails exponentially.

Cyclone called from valley’s gorge entering thoracic walls, dantian and crown aiding force, melting mountainside, feeling hands of the many. Frozen in time, fear-ridden, what if I die miserably? Heart pounding, fear of heart attack commence, irresponsible father forth tracing steps, sent to the island of misfit toys.

Battle in the mind commencing at highest of magnitude, the brink of psychosis at hand, yes, yes, let us lose our mind! Great Spirit passing wind external auditory, whispering conversation, “What are you afraid of? What is the worst that could happen?”

I could die!

“Do you think you die? While yes the body will eventually decay, passing like a living compost pile, merely returning to the void, fertilizing and awaiting a rebirth of sorts, it remains eternal. Here let me show you…”

Traveling past existence, feeling pain and suffering of all generations, specifically and precisely seven generations as told by the Elders, division of great magnitude exists. Growing further apart, sons of Jacob dispersing to the corners of the globe, fission at atomic levels, cosmic dimensions supervoid growing amidst constellation Eridanus, ‘the pain still grows whilst Disturbed rewriting ballad.

Like a hollow bone, black hole swallowing remnants past, present and future thought transgression be, transmuting and refuting, gastric juices dissolving solidity, what was, maybe and everything in between.


The internal voice echoing song, afraid of disturbing the neighbors, enters quiet room within, the song of the universe changing chorus every breath, breathing in pain and suffering, breathing out a new landscape. Watery streams flowing, trickling Love and Peace, remembering once translated songs of pain and misery, “Hello darkness my old friend. I come to sing with you again.”

Heart ripped open, spilling contents planetary involvement, pouring like a river once sung Elder’s song, infinite, ever-expanding magnetic field, layers of pain pouring out pure love’s tune. Submitting to Universal awareness, consciousness as one, Seeing Eye of Creation itself, the Author bowing to those before him, teachers and gatekeepers, cavernous spaces unknown, as in the beginning was the end, stated before, written word, twisted or translated for few to understand, all was understood.

I Am Here. Take my Hand once sung to thee. I Am Here for all to breathe.

Enters the field, Great Mystery, Universal Consciousness, ability to enter, exit lifetimes inserting optional redo, witnessing explanatory planetary evolvement, sapiens bi-pedaling two wheels ride. Purpose-driven life became known, once shadow of a doubt now the light of day, breathing in Universal Love nothing absentia, all-encompassing, existence singularity ‘drops of Jupiter,’ hearts flooding interstellar space, blanketing the Sun, and solar system to the nth degree.

Melted, faded, countryside landscape, blooming petals, flowering buds, smallest of sentient feasting on mana’s flow. Pouring out, fungating presence breathing through, ancestral beings taking hand, wrapping the globe, third rock from pivotal exchange, accepting life ever-lasting, taking seat with the Masters.

Strokes the whiskers, facial delight, universal gaze outward exchange, it is so, once the pawn now the King, rhetoric, parabolic, or metaphorical life consummating turn, the Author smiles in harmonious silent tune. Singing universal breath, silently, stealthy, unbeknownst to the others…singing the Song of Creation, life itself labels not included.

It is time.

Quill in hand, careful dictation, translated eons of storylines, correct as they were told, pardoning not one, labeled as such, remaining the same, expansive and vast the Way, Void of All there Is, written upon the Canvas.

The Canvas of Life, once a follower of delight, now Author of Absolute, wetting whistle, singing Song of Creation, re-writing past, present, and future, as it was, in the Beginning, It Is the End.

~Ani Po

Photo by santosh verma on Unsplash

Joseph Lieungh