With the blood stained smock draped around his neck, he slogged his way back across the submerged field and up to his sleeping spot. He stuffed his blanket in the suitcase, and after he clicked the latches, pushed it over the precipice and watched it tumble down the slope. He followed it, pulled out the handle, and gazed up for a few seconds at the structure that had sheltered him. The suitcase floated as he pulled it. He could even shove it ahead of him as he labored through the sludge. By the time he got back to the top of the causeway, the mud that coated the bottom half of his body had dried to a powdery chocolate. He liked the way this felt and it made him consider if it would be better to start his trek naked or with clothing. The day was warm. His skin, except on his face and hands, was pale and delicate. Still, the sunshine invigorated him; or maybe it was because of his long sleep. It was like an energizing drug, and he remembered another thing Ottala had said—to know the truth, an artist needs to walk through it naked. Swan was no artist but, since her death, he believed even more fervently in what she’d taught him. Again, he looked up at the great white clouds with their melting vaporous edges. Something else occurred to him; something that caught him by surprise. Even after all life passes away, he thought, nature will continue to exist. Clouds will exist. The blue toned mountains will exist. Nature wasn’t just biological systems, and perhaps a living observer wasn’t strictly necessary. For the moment the job was his however, and he felt a strange new desire to test himself and to see as much of the physical world as he could before the end. He wanted to walk over the mountains naked.
46: The End of Delusion
46: The End of Delusion
46: The End of Delusion
With the blood stained smock draped around his neck, he slogged his way back across the submerged field and up to his sleeping spot. He stuffed his blanket in the suitcase, and after he clicked the latches, pushed it over the precipice and watched it tumble down the slope. He followed it, pulled out the handle, and gazed up for a few seconds at the structure that had sheltered him. The suitcase floated as he pulled it. He could even shove it ahead of him as he labored through the sludge. By the time he got back to the top of the causeway, the mud that coated the bottom half of his body had dried to a powdery chocolate. He liked the way this felt and it made him consider if it would be better to start his trek naked or with clothing. The day was warm. His skin, except on his face and hands, was pale and delicate. Still, the sunshine invigorated him; or maybe it was because of his long sleep. It was like an energizing drug, and he remembered another thing Ottala had said—to know the truth, an artist needs to walk through it naked. Swan was no artist but, since her death, he believed even more fervently in what she’d taught him. Again, he looked up at the great white clouds with their melting vaporous edges. Something else occurred to him; something that caught him by surprise. Even after all life passes away, he thought, nature will continue to exist. Clouds will exist. The blue toned mountains will exist. Nature wasn’t just biological systems, and perhaps a living observer wasn’t strictly necessary. For the moment the job was his however, and he felt a strange new desire to test himself and to see as much of the physical world as he could before the end. He wanted to walk over the mountains naked.