David Cunningham - Yellow River
June 06, 1778
Midday
...
"Fate is not defined by heaven. Chance dictates constant change in the universe.
By chance, all existence can be traced back to a single source. Before land, grass and continents came to exist, a cosmic ocean filled every single inch of our home world. The primordial ooze from which all living creatures took shape originated from the water.
Without water, there would be no life. Without a liquid, there would be no transitional state between what is solid and what is no longer, and through the combined endeavors of Bahamut and Leviathan, one fluid essence split in two deities, the everlasting rain of Burmecia cannot be considered a mistake of creation.
Bahamut, the lord above, reigns over the heavens, while his other half Leviathan, ruler of the depths, reigns over the oceans below in a dichotomy of order and chaos that forms the mortal plane known as Gaia, a middle ground between the two eternal realms which hosts the souls caged within flesh, plants, rocks, objects; it's a broad and ethereal world filled with sentience in everything.
One day, the souls will abandon the material prison to ascend above the clouds of this reality into Weltall, the intermediate state of afterlife undisturbed by the passing tides of time that marks the beginning of the transcendence from this level to the next. A long path to purification towards rebirth awaits those who dare cross through the Celestial River of Eternity, an arduous task even for a soul that has already left its body and mind behind, and once the threshold of known matter is reached, the eternal slumber of a previous existence can be fulfilled as the seeds that bind an old life to a new one are sown on Gaia."
...
Do you hear the noise out the window, my dear? It's raining. It always rains in Burmecia. I know how much you want to get out, but not yet. One day I'll let you walk in the rain. I'll hold your tiny little arms as you step with your naked feet on the grass.
I can't go outside right now. I don't feel like I have to. There are days like these where I find myself re-reading the novels I read as a child. Not just because books are rare in this country, moreso translations of old scribes dating centuries ago, where writing was a skill acquired by a few, but I'm very fond of looking at what others have to say or or comment on in their own world or in personal essays dealing with very specific topics.
The Book of Reis was one of my first reads. It's not a single book but rather a collection of manuscripts written by Mother Reis at different periods of her life, twenty of which only eleven have been translated into Common Language, three are said to have been written by someone else years after the original author's death and the others have unfortunately been lost in time, which is quite sad, really. There have been attempts to translate parts of the final book that were written in Proto-Burmese, but since the adoption of a standard alphabet, the knowledge we had of most of the past symbols and the specific meanings they had on their own has slowly fallen by the wayside.
Many of our legends and myths are dying out because most of them were disseminated by oral means, with little to no record of words, or, as I said before, they were written down in a way that most people can't understand. Yet, some folks have spent their lifetime attempting to restore the ancient scribes against all odds. I admire their perseverance when everything else seems hopeless and in vain. "The spirit of Reis lies within all of us", as my father used to say. He used to walk through the ruins of Old Burmecia, which are still visible at some places, to search for wisdom and a better understanding of the daily life and behavior of our ancestors.
During his lifetime, my father translated some of the graffiti found on the walls of many neighborhoods. He was unable to provide a precise translation, as rain and other factors greatly hinder preservation. Yes, rain can be pleasant to listen to, but it does a lot of damage to our history. I've seen it with javelins whose iron tips got covered in rust or houses where mold grows like a plague, the damp in the walls reminds me of blemishes upon a skin. You try to hide them, you even forget they exist, but one day they'll come back to haunt you.
Floods are quite rare, they only happened a few times when I was on duty. Our drainage system is efficient, but when it fails, it's a tragedy like no other. I went through the abysmal effort of saving a hundred lives while witnessing countless houses being flooded by water and many bodies after the water level receded. Drowning is silent, and I think that's the worst kind of death, the one that nobody realizes is happening. No wonder some say that the damned are punished in the afterlife by drowning for all eternity in the sea of darkness under Leviathan's domains, and if you ask me, I can't imagine a more terrible condemnation for the soul.
I don't want to think that as being true, either. Interestingly, Reis never mentioned any sort of hell in her writing other than the unwashable sin of knowledge everyone is born with, which some might consider to be their own personal hell. Some people don't want to know the truth and go through life ignoring it, while others are aware and yet feel they can't do anything to change it or that others are dedicated enough to allow that change to happen. As for you, my child, you can decide for yourself who you want to be seconds after breathing in the air that will burn like flames in your lungs. You can ignore the sensation or let yourself be consumed by these imaginary flames as you live, but knowing you're part of me, I believe you'll follow the second option.
Who knows. You do not exist for a greater good, a greater purpose other than living. Death is final, but with life comes plenty of opportunities. I haven't heard anything about Bart. I hope he is doing fine. Jack is somewhere playing with his friends, he'll surely be fine. As for me... You know I will be fine, I swear, it's just an inconvenient cold.