A young writer once approached the master, their eyes wide and their smile broad. In their hand: A pen clutched so tightly it threatened to snap in two. The writer spoke with innocent joy:
“Master, I have found a lead, the answer is finally within my grasp! Soon the whole world shall know the truth and it will be glorious!”
The master sat still with tranquil repose and surveyed the writer with eyes more ancient than the mountaintop upon which they sat. They spoke gently:
“If you write while searching for truth, you will write nonsense and fools will love you.”
With that the young writer turned away, frustrated, and left, swearing never to speak to the master again.
Many weeks later the young writer once again approached the master, their sneer proud and their eyes defiant. In their hands: A manuscript, bound with thread, so thick as to barely open. The writer spoke with gleeful pride:
“Master, you must eat your words. I found the truth and now it lives forever on my pages. Very soon the whole world shall read my work and I will be famous!”
The master sipped their tea and smiled gently, their eyes encouraging and kind. They spoke gently:
“If you write while you hold the truth, you will write nonsense and academics will love you.”
The young writer frowned, pursed their lips in contempt, and turned to leave, once again swearing to never return to the master.
Several months later the young writer returned to the master, their face dim, their shoulders slumped, and their eyes sullen. In their hands: Tattered scraps of paper barely held together with tape. The writer spoke with despair and sadness:
“Master, my work has soured, my truth has curdled, and my papers are not worthy of publication. I fear now, if the world should see me, that I will be remembered as a fool.”
The master closed their eyes, took in the pain, and spoke with compassion and care:
“If you write while the truth is slipping away, you will write nonsense and the mystics will love you.”
The young writer sighed, depressed and aimless, and left, hoping never to speak to the master again.
Many seasons later, the young writer returned to the master, their face mellow, their eyes warm, their posture gentle. In their hands: A few neat pages laced with golden ink. The writer spoke with courage yet humility:
“Master, I let go of the truth, and found myself as a poet. My pages fill now with a soul undeterred by absolute truth, but I find myself missing a piece. I find myself wanting to speak with meaning beyond beautiful prose.”
The master looked into the distance, to a nearby tree, and watched as a small bird with fiery wings came to perch upon a branch. The master spoke with gentle joy:
“If you write when you have learned to let the truth go, you will write nonsense and the poets will love you.”
The young writer followed the master’s gaze but saw nothing in the distance, and so they left, puzzled, and wondering whether they would ever speak to the master again.
Many years later the young writer, no longer so young, returned to the master, their face wrinkled and their hair grey, but their eyes now soft and inviting. In their hands: Nothing. The writer spoke with weariness and warmth:
“Master, I do not recall why I came to you all those years ago, and I do not know why I am here now. What is the purpose of our work?”
The master looked at the writer through clouded eyes that barely worked, and spoke with a raspy voice that held back time yet remained unmistakably kind:
“If you write when you have forgotten about the truth entirely, you will write honestly and no one will love you.”
The writer, upon hearing this, turned away momentarily, then stopped. They remembered their path: The pen so dear, the pages so full, the scraps so tattered, and the prose so golden. As they remembered their ambitions of truth and beauty, they reflected on how it had all fallen by the wayside in the end. Their attention drifted to the distance, where a dense fog rolled over a mountain range, gracefully following every contour, and gently touching every surface. Soaring high above the fog: The same fiery red bird the master had once seen, gently circling and looking for a place to land. In that moment they saw the truth and beauty they had chased for so long, so they sat beside the master in silence. In time they began to write, neither in pursuit of such goals, nor in spite of them, but to simply experience the joy of writing.