Euronymous
as told by Takhisis:
You hold before you a puzzle box, all gentle filigree and sharp corners.
Your fingers trace the patterns idly, and look! One side has opened to
let you look within.
A single dark feather, glinting in the dim light. Or not...looking closer
you see it is made of human hair, black and soft as night's velvet
underbelly, cleverly woven on a quill and shaped to be the unity of man
and flight. You reach in to touch it, and the side clicks closed.
Frustrated, you poke at the carvings, trying to reopen the side and see more. As you fumble your grip on the cube, a different side clicks and slides open silently. Inside now is a silver heart, polished and perfect. You reach in and touch it gently, with awe. Press harder and it shifts and splits into twin silver blades, sweet arcs deadly and hinged at the point. You draw your tender hand back in fear and it slides closed, formless and perfect once more: warning, clumsy one. Do not mar that which is precious. You pull your hand back to examine for wounds and the box's side closes as silently as it opened.
Growing wiser, you gently turn the puzzle, waiting to see which side will open at random, and which of the six prizes within will show itself to you. You realize you are not solving the puzzle, it is solving itself before you, and you are blessed to be here to see it. You sit back with reverence and watch, your hands merely acolytes of the change.
And this side reveals an ancient fountain pen, seemingly empty, but its nib drips clear fluid like tears, splashing into alien rainbows on paper, colors of depth and vividness never before seen on the earth.
And this side holds a crystal sphere, crazed with cracks but intact. Each splinter holds an image of intensity: love, hate, fear, joy, triumph. The tiny images shift and flicker, and you realize each is but a pixel of a larger image within the globe, some ultimate purpose.
And here is a scrap of black fabric, its softness soaking in the light around it. Its scent is of leather and cigarettes, rustling holds hint of sardonic chuckling.
And here is a single sheet of parchment, unmarked, blinding in its purity and potential. The physical essence of TO BE, you dare not touch it for fear of leaving a smudge on its perfection.
And now you have seen all six sides, and you return to the first, eager to touch the feather at last. Your fingers dance, the side opens...
Within is a single grain of sand.
The box is ever changing, constant in its being and entropic in its content, but within you know there is a pattern that you cannot yet comprehend.
Learn from it.
Love what you find.
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