The weaving evening

What are you doing this evening?

In the stillness of a long road, where thoughts did not cling to anyone, joy revealed itself like a hidden treasure. Yet, in that silence, a disturbance rose from the unseen. A force crept toward the navel, loosening the garment of protection as though it sought to weaken the very center of being. At once, awareness awoke, the garment was lifted, and the guard within grew stronger.

From the horizon of the unseen came a figure not of flesh but of vapor—a clear, blurred bubble, floating with intent. It drifted closer, pressing toward the face, seeking entry into the gates of the body. But each gate was sealed by vigilance, each passage closed by the strength of presence. The bubble wavered, trembled, and dissolved into nothingness, unable to pierce what was whole.

Then the conjurers revealed themselves in shadowy form—Xandra the Weaver of Illusions and Raul the Warlord of Poison. They were not enemies of flesh, but tempters of spirit. Their delight was in mixing the brew of vengeance, drinking deeply of it, and then offering the same bitter cup to others. “Taste,” they whispered across the veil, “and let the poison be your fire.”

But the heart that had awakened was no longer thirsty for such draughts. Instead of drinking, it poured the poison back into the earth, where it lost all power.

And so a greater truth unfolded: that strength is not found in returning venom for venom, but in choosing release. The art of letting go became the shield, and the act of moving on, the sword. Acceptance flowed like water, love shone like fire, and the spell of bitterness was broken.

The old chains of stories—of pasts clung to, of daughters pawned in tales, of legacies bound in regret—crumbled like ash. From their remains, a new weaving began: not a tale of bondage, but a soul-story, radiant and free.

Thus the parable speaks: nothing from outside can truly enter when the gates of awareness are guarded. No poison can harm when the heart refuses to drink. And in remembering, I am nothing to existence, yet in that nothingness I am whole, one steps into freedom beyond shadow and beyond time.

And so, under the quiet evening sky, the story was written—woven not of poison, but of peace.