There once occurred an event at a time of beauty, forgotten by history so long ago that it exists in the world today only as a faded shadow of a memory, like an echo that has lost its path of cliffs and deep places. It was a time when there were not many people in the world. There were very few places, because of this, in which the conditions could exist for the arising of villages. In this time of no countries, no cities, no races, there was one particular village where there was living a group of people that seemed so strange that no-one, not one human being from outside this village ever chose to stay and live.
There is a great mystery in the fact that in this time in the world, the race of humanity was unhappy. The world was free of any vice that we carry in the modern society today. There was no disease. There was no hunger. Why did such people in such times hate the world that they lived in? They could not say why they hated the world. But they said, and they said it with one voice, "I know that I hate the world I live in. Knowing why I hate the world is useless! Anyone who asks 'Why?' is a lunatic or a fool. We can not change the world, so we choose to be wise as only we are wise, and the cost of the magicks that our wisdom gives us is the lunacy that gives anyone Joy."
They lived for many times longer than people do in the world today, yet they all seemed to waste their gift of long life, even each hour of each day, crying. They walked and cried. They rested and cried. They slept and even cried when they slept. The leaders cried with no tears and declared that this way of crying was to be known across the whole world as the wisest way. The leaders pretended that because they had declared the wisest way of all the world that they deserved to own everything, deserved the power of giving and taking based on their whims, which was also soon declared to be part of the wisest way. The 'wisest way' became a creed, a religion, and the only philosophy.
Back and forth these people cried and cried. Some cried so much that they became blind, but what is sad about these blinded mourners was the fact that they did not notice that they had even been struck blind! And they never knew.
When a baby was born in this time of the world, it was born crying. Young children played in the fields and lakes, but their games were games of grief and when they played, they cried. Young men and women met and had children without ever knowing if the other was beautiful, or tender, or even if whether or not there had ever existed a mate or children. They had missed too much information, unable to hear over all the sounds of sobbing in the air. And in days, after hundreds of years, a person began to tire, to exhaust himself in his core, his Death should have been the sweet embrace of a loving parent... but when the embrace was there in all its incomprehensible sweetness, the poor people would only claw at the air and cry with the force of every sharp sorrow of their long life, and the sound of it was a song. It was a song that touched every song of that time of the world. The sound of all the cries from all the people in all the world was like the sound of a cosmic birth, the thunder of an angry star, the pain in the strings of an eternal violin, the sound of a last hope when it vanishes from the realm of the orphans. It echoed beyond and outside of time with a strength of a holy desire, so clearly and in a manner so profound that we can hear the song, hear it as a memory, and know the story as if it was an echo simply lost in its way, a whisper that only the quiet can hear.