The story is key. One cannot convey ones message without the story. The story preexists mankind, and stretches back to the very dawn of creation. We may escape from everything but the story, and the absence of the story is nihilism, is death. Do not be deceived, we did not create this story, or at least, we did not consciously create it, and as such, we are not responsible for its creation. But we may be responsible for its propagation. For if we have seen the story, have seen its efficacy, and denied that efficacy, then we have denied life, and life will be denied to us in turn. What is the story, you may ask? Whence lies its beginnings? What threads may we grasp onto in order that we may follow its course backwards and forwards in time? All stories are one, I answer. If I know nothing else, I know that much. But not all threads of the story are as clear and pristine as others. There are threads of the story that will lead us into darkness just as surely as the denial of the story. But only if we follow these threads in the wrong direction, for even the weakest and most sullied of her threads meet eventually in the nexus of the web that is the story of human beginnings. If we can hold onto nothing else, it must be the thread of the story where we find ourselves, for one cannot jump from one thread to another, for an infinity of darkness lies between them. So long as you grasp onto the thread, whether you have travelled in the right direction, towards the center and the lights of being, or whether you have travelled in the opposite direction, mistaking a mere reflection of that light for the light itself, one may always find ones way back to the center. But what is the center of the story, you may ask? I wish I knew, I respond. All I know is that there is one, and it is One truly. But the thread of each person's attachment to the story is unique, and each person must find their way either to this center, or to the outer darkness. And these threads do not travel in a straight line, but may be full of twists and turns. False alleys, that appearing to lead to the light, lead instead into the darkness. And other threads, appearing dark and futile, will in a short while, make a sharp turn towards the light. There are symbols along the way, there are guides to help us, and some of those guides are the voices of others who travel alongside us for a time. But even these voices, through no fault of their own, may deceive us. Truly, this great web of being is a terrifying thing, and we tame her and deny her efficacy at our peril. But yet, when seen from the outside, when seen from the perspective of Being Itself, the patterns woven in this great web of being are beautiful; more beautiful than the thoughts of those who travel her courses can possibly imagine. More beautiful than the sun and the stars. More beautiful than the depths of quantum entanglements. More beautiful than the heights of human passion, and more terrible than the depths of human despair. So beautiful that the despair of the most wretched lost voices, rising out of the dark mists lying at the edges of the entrails of being are but a dissonant chorus in the Ear of the Divine Being who perceives the workings of Her web. Do I speak of the Master of Being as a Spider? I suppose that is the logical end of this metaphor. Perhaps the metaphor is untrue, but imagine, if you can, the Divine Being as such an awesome Spider. For the spider is terrible to behold, yet she exudes a beauty both profound and terrible. And mind you, in this metaphor, mankind is not a miserable fly caught within the web of this spider, but the very material of the web that she has woven; her silk. A spider may devour her children, but does not the spider tend to and care for her web? She cares for even the weakest strand, and will not lightly abide its destruction. But of course, in the end, the spider is dependent upon her web. Is this a true metaphor for the Divine One? Well, I suppose all metaphors must break down at some level, and I have a suspicion that this metaphor has outlived its usefulness. But I wish you to see the majesty and the terror of our condition. I wish you to stand before the Divine One in awe and reverence and fear at Her very otherness to us. Yet, I wish you to see that She has not abandoned this web of being, and will repair its broken threads, (may we hope even to the last one?) before its delicate material may be reintegrated into the bosom of the One from whence it sprang.