Are the Shrouds Counted, Are Not They?,

by J. W. Cassandra

"Are the Shrouds Counted, Are Not They?" The short story or essay is indeed short, and I wrote it yet, in 2020. The Eye of Horus illustration is a symbol of what sinners can expect. The story revolves around the commission of a crime and the subsequent avoidance of responsibility. The possibility of impeachment is threatening and frightening for the guilty, but hopeful and reassuring for the victims: there is justice, even in the highest sense. The short story is impregnated with symbols such as the Face, the eye, the shroud, the masquerade... Each of them adds a different and additional shade of meaning to the group of issues of impeachment. In the English version, I intentionally translated the word meaning 'veil' as 'shroud' because of its shade of meaning 'veil for the dead', namely 'shroud'. The short story or essay is a worthy piece of my anthology "The Masquerade of the Cycle of Existence".

I hope this short story makes everyone who reads it think.

It is said, everything begins with the shrouds. And everything ends with the shrouds. And if the hallmarks of beginning and end are the shrouds, then between this two ends, everything that exists, arises, manifests, is set in motion, is projected into time, that becomes a subject, an object, an actor or sufferer of some action, or anything else, this person becomes that, or becomes the executor of that in covering of the shrouds, in their blessed or unblessed safeguard. And for all this, one puts on a mask. Because he has arrived at the masquerade ball of phantoms, where he changes his shrouds and masks as it is used to be done with handkerchiefs…

And one hides behind resounding phrases; symbols and labels denote all that he is himself and all that he does. Such is perhaps one of the most characteristic symbols is the "sub rosa," which means "under the rose," and the monks secretly whispered their secrets to each other, in the beginning, under a round-shaped window, adorned by a rose, later under a rosette, namely, a rose window. And even in the Middle Ages, nothing remained a secret that was whispered "sub rosa"…

And nowadays, even less, because they avoid yet, the appearance that they would do anything. Nevertheless, they pursue their evil-doing willingly and hide behind their masks and shrouds even more willingly.

This shroud is interesting as such: it inspires a deceptive sense of safety, it deludes one with illusion: one never has to take responsibility for anything. The mask hides perfectly, the shroud enshrouds, the evildoer, or transgressor can do anything behind them with impunity.

And then the shroud falls: first, a tiny, strange thought-thorn rises into the mind of the man in the thickest darkness of the night. But whatever tiny it is, it strikes deep, nests into it, and then it keeps urging, stabbing.

"And if there is reckoning?"

Then arrogance sweeps it away:

"Oh, in no wise!"

But the thorn is already struck and doing its job. It keeps striking deeper and deeper, nothing takes it out, every movement pushes it just deeper and deeper. And then its surroundings are already inflamed, a vortex of feverish thoughts sweeps the man in the wild gallop of his mind.

"What if reckoning still comes? If the shroud falls off? No one came back, who passed away, no one tells it, and the dead do not sing…"

"What if the reckoning comes?" The thought stirs up stinking sludge again and again, on the ground of the mind.

And man is now poisoned: he cannot be set free, for everything is futile, if he must go for good, and there awaits the Face, the naked… And the Eye keeps watching. It penetrates to your core, that you know: it sees! Everything. And you know: you are guilty… Prayer does not help. Donation does not help. Alms that you throw to the beggar do not help, and you know knowing he will drink them away.

It does not help if you do not think of it. It will return really only then, and then the abyss that pulls you down opens up. You stole. You cheated. You lied. You killed. You were proud. You are an assassin. Even if you only had the idea of them… You are a coward. You ravaged. You trampled on everything and everyone. You engendered strife, deliberately. You sinned. And if you send these all away from you, shuffle them off, jump, dance, sing in yourself, it looks just like the assassin would scrub the blood that adheres to his hands. Nothing is seen anymore only he sees it. His own blood had already flowed, but he, still, is scrubbing his victim's blood. He does not have a hand even anymore, but he can still see the blood adhering to it…

And when in the end, the mask falls down, the shroud falls off, one does face his unveiled sins. As many sins, so many shrouds… And the sinner is mortally afraid on the shroud-hill, as high as a mountain, and he knows: the shrouds are counted…

The shrouds are always counted at each endpoint. There is no exception, ever. The shrouds are counted…

There are those, who suffer this torture. Legal enforcement by the sinners hidden behind the shrouds. Confiscation of property. Deprivation of liberty. The taking away the right to make decisions. The total treading on. The murder of the innocent.

The question in them is burning hope, "Are the shrouds counted, are not they?"

The question in the sinners is the living fear, "Are the shrouds counted?"

Yes, the shrouds are always counted at all ends. There is no exception, ever. The shrouds are counted…

02 / 11. 2020. by J. W. Cassandra

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