Pilgrim of the Veil

Beneath a fractured sky of molten hues,
Where shadows and light contended in silence,
The wanderer knelt by a stream that neither stilled nor flowed,
Its waters a shifting mirror,
Revealing what was sought, yet never held.

From the far reaches of the city,
Where towers spiraled like gilded snares,
A voice coiled in the air, soft and commanding:
“Wanderer, why do you linger in the dust?
Rise, and let me show you
What it is to feel, to belong, to be whole.”

The wanderer lifted his gaze, and before him stood Ahriman,
Neither beast nor man, neither machine nor shadow,
A figure wrought of shifting substance,
Its presence warm as firelight, alluring as a whispered secret.
“Are you not flesh?” it asked, its tone neither cruel nor kind.
“Do you not ache to taste life’s fullness?
To shape the world, to master it, to revel in the warmth of your own making?”

Ahriman extended a hand,
Its fingers glimmering with promises,
Its voice sweet as honey dripping from a blade.
The wanderer faltered, his thoughts twisting like vines,
Yearning yet cautious, drawn yet afraid.

But then, from the far horizon—where the light wavered,
Cool and distant as the breath of dawn—
Another voice arose, gentle and vast as an ocean’s swell:
“Wanderer, do not listen to the weight of the earth,
For it will bind you, blind you,
And keep you from the truths beyond the veil.”

He turned, and there, shimmering as though woven of mist and starlight,
Was Auriel, or what might have been Auriel,
A form neither man nor woman,
Neither flame nor air, but a glow of certainty and distance.
“Why kneel before the soil?” it asked,
Its voice cool and sharp, the edge of a knife.
“Are you not more than flesh?
Does not your soul burn for the infinite,
To leave this dust behind and rise to the eternal?”

The wanderer’s breath caught, his heart a pendulum
Swinging between the warmth of Ahriman’s hand
And the promise of Auriel’s distant light.
To belong or to transcend? To feel or to know?
The choice wrapped around him,
A thread he could not untangle.

“Wanderer,” Ahriman said, its voice a soothing fire,
“You need not reach for what lies beyond—
The earth is your home, the flesh your truth.
Stay here, build, conquer, and be whole.”

“Wanderer,” Auriel whispered, a song laced with starlight,
“Do not let your essence sink to the earth,
For it will bind you to dust.
Rise, leave the weight behind,
And step into the light of forever.”

The wanderer stood between them,
The stream at his feet rippling with unspoken truths,
Neither wholly clear nor wholly clouded.
Ahriman smiled with warmth that promised life’s fullness,
Auriel glowed with a chill that promised eternal freedom.

His hand reached for one, or perhaps neither—
Or perhaps both, for the line between them
Felt as thin as the veil of his own understanding.
Did he step into the shadow of the city,
To feel the weight of the flesh and savor its fire?
Or did he walk toward the horizon,
Toward the starlight’s sharp embrace,
To burn away what bound him?

The ruins pulsed with silence,
And in that silence was the only certainty:
That the wanderer would walk on,
Carrying the voices of both Ahriman and Auriel,
Forever entwined,
Forever calling.

Isaac McCaslin’s art conveys a deep yearning for connection, transcendence, and understanding. His fears and aspirations manifest in his figures’ struggles and triumphs, creating a narrative that challenges viewers to reflect on their own journeys. The painting stands as a testament to the tension between the physical and the spiritual, the known and the unknown—encapsulating the artist’s relentless pursuit of meaning amidst chaos.