Once upon a time immemorial there lived a race of giants. Having no tongue themselves, needs must we give them a name - The Bedenler. The Bedenler were rutted things, moving through their spans in careful sequences of action, hunger leading satiation, thirst calling its quenching, fullness elliciting release.
Traditionalists of the moment, movement and desire concurrent.
When the urge took them they would migrate to the mountains and pound and pummel new life from the rock. Over millenia their blunt fists became subtle and created ever more beautiful forms from the bones of the Earth. Seeing but unseeing this supple enoblement of form was lost upon them.
In a valley far away there existed another form of life: crystal flowers, inert to all purpose, unliving and undying - pure coruscrations of abstraction: The Akillar. They blazed in the youthful sunlight, their inards a tumble of haphazard creativity spinning useless in a void of none-sensing.
It was inevitable perhaps, that one sun’s rise the two would meet. Suddenly consumed by hunger, a Beden outstretched an unconscious limb and scooped a flower unto itself.
In a break with eons’ custom, the flower was not consumed. It sent eager tendrils shooting and slithering through every nook and cranny the Beden’s form afforded. Arising on a stalk from between the bulked shoulders of its host, it opened a new found eye upon the world and screamed the first words ever heard within all existance:
[size=200]I see.[/size]
Creativity was given purpose, an untold myriad of ends were at last given means. BedenAkil hoarded a veritable abundance of flowers within the encompass if its embrace and strode forth back to the others.
Soon - all were united.
The Akillar were well pleased with their hosts, mindless minions to be directed as they saw fit. On borrowed feet they walked, with borrowed eyes they saw, with borrowed tongues they spoke and warbled. They counted only themselves their masters.
What folly.
That which could not hunger - hungered. That which could not feel cold - cried out for shelter. That which had no thirst - was driven to slake it. That which felt no fear - was suddenly afraid. That which could feel no pain - ached and hurt and was agonized.
The Akil shaped the words, but the Beden contextualized, limited and usurped their meaning. Knowing without knowing the Beden took their masters’ thoughts and drove them to their own unspoken ends.
Fated perhaps however it could not last - An Ouroboros must logically run out of tail. The multitudious forms of the hapless Beden assumed a heirarchy of worth previously un-annotated in times gone by. A mêlée of prodigious and merciless proportion ensued. All save one were smashed and broken.
Sunk upon its weary haunches, the last reached up, and tore the flower from its neck.
Rising, smoothly now, untainted by doubt, the Beden turned its back upon the carnage, and strode into the mountains.
Tab.
[size=75]Note: Turkish terms - (Trans: Beden = Body. Akil = Mind.)[/size]