The Shaman Desires Transcendence

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I couldn’t even love myself fully.

I hated myself, and when I saw a reflection of my likeness, I exerted my strength not to affirm it but to wipe it away and destroy it.

Ashtosh Singh thought this while looking back at his past.

Ah, is this my own thought? Or is it Park Jinseong’s whisper?

I questioned my thoughts, doubting them, and then doubted the very subject of that doubt again.

Even if I suspect that subject, does it leave even a speck of doubt on its truthfulness?

A glass sphere is still a glass sphere in anyone’s hand, just as it does not change its essence even if a wicked tongue moves to deceive it as a jewel unseen throughout history. Ashtosh Singh realized that his enlightenment was precisely of that nature.

He knows it well.

That the essence remains the same, and it is the individual who assigns meaning to it.

Some feel a dazzling beauty while others see it as shabby, regardless of viewing the same thing. The item remains still, yet a person’s subjectivity inevitably infuses it, and thus, he knows well that to truly understand the essence of all things, he must govern his heart.

Thoughts bob up like driftwood from the depths.

Like the logic that stirs up mud if you scrape the bottom, his thoughts begin to cloud. Thoughts that sink and then float start weaving through the air, making it difficult for Ashtosh Singh to pierce through his own heart.

Oh, how I wish my heart were calm.
Oh, how I wish time were ample.
If only I could exist in solitude amidst the stillness, how wonderful that would be.

Meditating to calm my thoughts is hard, and the situation does not permit swatting away the branches of thought that extend wildly. It has become difficult to incinerate the drifting distractions with the intervention of others.

Parasite, oh parasite.
A parasite that is hard to shake off.

You reach out to my mind and leave it in a dizzying state, for you are indeed the Heart Demon.
You are indeed the Heart Demon-!

Ah, thoughts arise.
Thoughts arise…

How can one justify the act of throwing a stone into a quiet lake, stirring it up?
To disrupt tranquility itself, you must certainly be a Heart Demon.

But at that moment, another thought responds to it.

Anyone might look at the flickering flame and say, “The wind stirs the flame, thus it is harmful to it.” But is that truly the case? Without the wind, how could the flame ignite, and how could it swell? A mere spark grows large with the breath that fuels it. Riding on that breath, the flame expands, consuming everything around it and revealing its presence to the world.

Thoughts, thoughts are agitated.

“Do not deny it. How can you try to turn your eyes away from that which you have pierced through? No matter how much you turn away, it remains there. If you open your eyes again and look, it is still there, and only your heart is swaying.”

“Have you seen a shadow shifting in the dark of night? Have you heard the cracking sound of falling leaves or breaking branches? In the deep, dark forest, have you mistaken the sound and swelling shadow for a beast?”

“Look at the shadow. Those sharp claws, that gaping mouth, those razor-sharp fangs. The muscles preparing to unleash explosive power, that beast’s shadow, crouching low to pounce at any moment… have you ever felt fear from that?”

“The shadow merely exists. The sound was just heard. If so, what is there, a beast, or merely an illusion? If the illusion is correct, then in that brief moment did ‘it’ turn from a beast into nothing? No. What has changed is only your heart, isn’t it?”

Indeed, it is so.
Though the one speaking may be a shaman, the essence of that statement does not differ.

Just because I disapprove of the speaker, doesn’t mean the essence of the statement could change.
The essence has not changed.
It is upon my heart that the weight and value of words depend.

Ah, Ashtosh Singh, oh flame.
Do you not know the truth in those words?
You must fully accept your heart.
I must fully accept my heart.

“How wretched. Ah, my heart shakes as if it has two sides. I can’t help but question if my mind is fractured!”

“A fragmented imagery in a muddled heart, colliding and shattering along with that wilful urge. Hahaha! Indeed, indeed!”

“What a dreadful parasite, what a dreadful parasite!”

Emotions are swaying.
I am in despair, then irritation rises, pausing briefly before my head spins again.
This terrible feeling, akin to a thorn pierced through my heart, feels as if it has embedded into my mind itself.

Those who haven’t cultivated their minds would have been instantly consumed by this distress, rendered utterly unable to act. Wanting to surrender to the turmoil but held back by opposing thoughts and feelings, repeating this would lead to a contradiction where a sane mind and body remain yet separate; it would feel as though one’s mind is being torn apart within a prison made of flesh.

“Are you shaking me? But that too depends entirely on the heart.”

Yet amidst this dreadful feeling, Ashtosh Singh managed to maintain his sanity.
Perhaps it is because of his mental discipline he has built over time…

“O shaman, I have already been shaken. Ah, how could I say my heart remains unshaken after realizing the truth that one who cannot even love himself claims to love God and others?”

… Perhaps something else is agitating him further.

Just as once burned cannot ignite again.
Even if I gather the ash-white remnants with my hands, I cannot light them with a match.
Already deeply shaken within his heart, he mourned. The truth that he did not do what he needed to in his life, having cried out and wept, he had become so sad that no new sorrow could intrude upon him.

Ah.
So sad, so sad.
Even in this turmoil, I feel sorrow, like a thorn piercing through my heart.

“Although the secular and the ideal could align, I have not attained that secular perfection. Despicable, despicable — futile and futile…”

That is disappointment.
That is sorrow.

Now, in this moment, a crack has appeared in the human heart.
Just like wood warped by moisture, a monumental fissure has formed in his heart.
It is a possibility that can never return to its original state, one whose future shape remains uncertain.

If there is time, that possibility will materialize into reality.
Will it distort and ruin a person’s heart, or will it find some utility? Or perhaps it will simply embody a unique charm — that will depend upon the individual…

“When a person’s skin is cut, insects crawl inside, harming the person, making him sick with foul smells and dirty filth, and vile things creep up to invade his mind, causing unrest; that is precisely why we must guard against injury.”

Now, such time will not be permitted to him.

* * *

Pain is felt.
A pain akin to hundreds of insects gnawing at my insides.
Pain that feels as if ants are crawling just beneath my skin.
Every single vein is sharply felt, and with that itch, I want to dig into my skin with my nails, scratching with all my might.

Every step I take is a torment.
The dissonance between body and mind creeps in, making me feel like a block wrongly fitted into its mold. Each step clangs with the disunity of spirit, mind, and flesh threatening to separate, only to later adjust back again, resulting in a clash as I bump into things — this feeling is maddening.

It feels as though I’m tossed about in a giant barrel.

“When I told Danbi about this, she laughed and said it must feel just like cement in a mixer.”

Is that all?
A sharp headache pierces through like a knife in my brain, incessantly sharpening, and amidst my cloudy thoughts, various distractions spring forth, each trying to assert itself — it feels as though I have developed a mental illness. At intervals, it feels as if flashbangs explode, blinding me momentarily, like lightning striking through my mind, then fading away…

Park Jinseong, plagued and yet nostalgic in this dreadful but yearning pain.

Ah. This terrible side effect of magic.
The excruciating cost delivered in real-time.
The terrible fragments of the horrific price to pay that will come once it’s over—

Hahahaha—!

Though it is a moment that warrants fear, still, Park Jinseong laughs.
What fear is there in paying a price for something one knows?
The magic he used is known solely to him.
The cost is fixed.
Thus, all he needs is resolve—

“ha brachah dabarah.”

Ah, what a loss. What a loss…
Not only did he suffer an unexpected attack, but the cost of the spells he cast is heavy, and to be victorious brings no substantial gain. Those fellows who call themselves shamans wouldn’t do anything beneficial to their foes, so it would be in vain to seek magic from the author.

Ah, just as before, those fire-wielders’ spells are likely unattainable.
Regret, how regrettable.
With no spells to gain, I shall merely kill the shaman.
How can this not be a loss?

Thus, I must obtain something.

So, the ritual must be performed.

“ha brachah dabarah, ha brachah dabarah.”

Blessed name.
The healing light raining from the sky.
Wood composed of letters.
Dissolving diseases as fog lifts, extinguishing flames like rain.
With the name of that magic, with the name of that magic.

“Make this place an altar and may it serve the idol forever.”

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