The god Shiva loves Parvathi, his consort, and the goddess loves him. Why then do they consent to being reborn on earth, to give themselves unto forgetting and mortality? Shiva is a fisherman, and Parvathi a peasant woman. What happened in heaven repeats itself on earth; the fisherman loves the woman just as the god loved the goddess.
And is it when they fall in love that they remember again who they were? But they do not remember, or it is memory that remembers them, uniting them in order to return memory to itself, but, this time, as the memory of no one, or of the tale that tells itself by way of the avatars of Shiva and Parvathi as they find one another on earth.
What is this tale, which tells itself in every tale? What seeks to accomplish itself by telling? There is no heaven, and we are born and reborn as avatars of no-one. Or it is the avatar who is born with us and is allowed to be rediscovered in telling – rediscovered, but not by anyone in particular?
And what I tell here? It is the same. Who speaks? Yes, I speak, I am speaking (writing), but isn’t it Spurious (this blog) which also speaks? Spurious, as it names that dubious birth, a birth no one engenders, which returns each time there is telling.
I would like to say something remembers itself here, that there is another, a writer like me, on the other side of the mirror. But I know that if he is there, he is not writing and has never written a line. And besides, what can he remember, he who is not even present to himself?
I feel sorry for him, Spurious, and that is why I write. I pity him who has forgotten himself and forgotten forgetting. Pity the one who, without himself, is the condition of all that is written here. But then I feel a kind of gratitude to him too, an indebtedness, for how can I repay him for what he remembers in my place?
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