Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project.
“Welcome to the Archive. I am Arhatta, but if it suits you call me Arhat.” Stillness kept the calm soothed, stillness of my heart, untouched by calamity, vice, or vitality. Death not kin, but rebirth conquered by the brahmacarya, by the culmination of life. “I have peace, I have harmony with all things, and with the upward twist of my lips the world shall know me through my visage. For I am neither what I was nor what I am. I am the visage. I am Lohan, the Arhatta.”
“You will begin to know us. We are the Archive. We each have our tale. For I, Arhatta, have known the age of mongols, when the Yuan Dynasty shun, and when the Ming Dynasty prevailed over them, until its iron will was brought to the blade by the hardened hands, which tilled their soil.” My story is long and words can only mire the mirth of my nirvana. Know me in thoughts or do not know me at all. Words leave to petty banter the unchecked heart, which frolics like the puppy nipping at an imagined butterfly.
Think on this in your thoughts, but not in your words. Stillness. Think on honor, for we attain it not by our deeds or what we achieve, but by what people give unto us. Honor is a golden prize which weighs down your brahmacarya. I received the name Arahan, worthy one, but they always read the absent words. Foe destroyer, they whispered. I’m neither worthy nor destroyer. I am the visage. Being worthy is subjective to world you live in. I no longer worry on such things. I am worthy of everything and nothing, for I no longer live.
Namo Tassa Bhagavato, Arahato, Samma-sammbuddhassa—Homage to him, the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the perfectly enlightened Buddha. “We are what we seek. I sought mirth, I am mirth.”