The serenity of the Center! Simplicity, balance. All things equal, thrilling to the echoes of a golden ratio, precursor to all that is worthy of worship. As pure as numbers, the initial state bears witness to nothing less than itself. And how plainly this serves as a metaphor for the Self. Such then is the pain—the self-effacement—of the betrayal visible in this figure.
The points that stretch and deform and finally puncture the sheltering sphere as surely as arrows pierce the flesh—caltrops for the hooves of Heaven’s horses!—are the outward marks only. Beneath the scars is a kink, an imperfection, a misgrown bone so bold it nearly reeks. Surpassing even blasphemy in its enormity, the twisting seeks to claim territory already bequeathed, like a raven atop the Temple. Walk away, heretic! We’ll be the better for your absence!
The renouncer inherits a ruined kingdom.
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