If I were to explain it to you, you’d think I’m crazy. I am. But not so much that ke fula le likhomo, just enough to talk and wave to things that aren’t there... at least to you. To me, they’re as vivid as day and as real as those fables about how Lehlohonolo Scott escaped jail. Maybe your disposition with the idea of the supernatural isn’t kind to such stories, but that doesn’t make them any more real or bogus. Unless you see it for yourself, schroedinger has an elusive hold on you; it's harmless, but a hold nonetheless. Ask me about it, I’ll tell you. It’s quite the thin line, so sharp that it split an infinity into two; imagine the night sky divided by the shivers down your spine, vibrating with whistles from the other side.
Longing sounds that incessantly lure you in like the wailing of the siren, with beauty to live for, ONLY to live for, its much easier to die. Bo-Mmamoshesha have encountered it too, scared out of their wits by the realization of a much more capable existence, with the realisation that their craft pales in comparison: flying brooms and incantations are party tricks. Nature worshipers dub it as a ‘femme fatale’, c’est vrai! Une Courtisane si douce que vous abandonneriez vos valeurs pour une nuit avec elle. It’s one definition away from being Thee God; It’s a warm place, full of life... like mother nature, it houses fertility. But it has a much more simple explanation. It’s a place. That's it. Intimidating as it is, the riddles surrounding its revelation are prone to voila into your language, but only when you abandon all and offer yourself to it. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I call it Ether.
Ask any practitioner of any art about it. Practitioners, not those who wish to be. It’s not exclusive or elitist, but I wouldn’t blame you for thinking it's so. Matter ceases to exist, and all but your sense of self become ideas, ideas that manifest into inconceivable truths, and answers about all existing ultimate concerns. All of all, they sum up to the answer to life, the universe, and everything, right in the palm of your hands. They become power.
It is a beyond so heavy that our puny existence can not bear its weight. it's cruel. It gives so much, only to take it away. You leave with the shadows of scales that could tip the world on its axis, and echoes of poetry and prose reminiscent of a diverse unity, the type to bring world peace. When you come back, it’s a dream, a grand puzzle impossible to piece together. But not all is lost, you may have lost all... but goddammit, a feeling persists. Your only memory of its forbidden inside is the sensation it drove through you, its touch. It was invasive and omnipotent in the formless recollection of your physique. Some would say borderline intimate.
That feeling becomes a source of creation, the fuel and vehicle to revisit Ether, or at least put it into words comprehensible by mere mortals. You've heard Christians try. They speak in tongues. Artists? they draw, paint, dance, make music… Anything that comes close to fully explaining it, they do it, obsessively, like drug addicts, anxious for their next fix.
Artists are abandoned lovers, stripped off a heavenly intimacy. They long for a feeling no other person can give them, a feeling they can only experience through their art. Where The Mountains Meet The Sky isn’t just a book. It’s a vulnerability we share with you. A portal to a different side of existence, be open to it. Get your copy.
