I cannot help thinking grave thoughts. My mind wanders sometimes endlessly through this objective world, crossing between the subjective and supersensible. And when I touchdown back to reality, all has changed and remained the same. It’s as though all that I’ve learned up to this point has been a lie, for logic goes out the window when you perceive what only an omnipotent and omniscient being can unfold in front of your eyes. What has really changed is me, though at the time I look only with a supernatural sight, heightened sensors to allow me to better grasp the objective world.
I start to understand that my life is not my own, and in this it has more meaning. I walk to a different tune, speaking words that actually make sense. But this is dangerous. The world preaches that we have only one life to live, that to die is the end of everything. If we must die, then may as well go out with such a bang that our memory remains eternally. Reach the highest mountain of gold, power and triumph. Step on the necks of your enemies for that lofty idea called freedom. Can you reach it?
I look to those I’ve known for many years. I have changed. My funny speech frightens them. But how can we be born again without dying? You are not of sound mind. Come back when you are well.
I soften my voice. I start to craft my words, seeping truth handed down to me from on high that they might understand. I inadvertently push them away. I only want you to understand me! I don’t want to scare you! But my voice is drowned out by her frightened screech. She knows me not.
Years go by, and the chasm has only deepened, only widened. Why do you not call me when you visit? Why do you turn your hand to me? The closest one to you calls me, and you… I have not forgotten that you birth me. I remember well your love. Do not shun me. Pommel me, and my nose will break and run red with your blood. Won’t you hold me? Am I forever lost to you?
A monster was born that day. A monster isn’t one by action, but by sight. My words are soaked with the stench of death, and I raze the ground in my wake. My promise of sweet life is nothing but a death toll. Come to me all who thirst, and you will drink your own blood.
A monster am I. My question now: how may I be cured from this plague? And if there be a remedy, will I envelop it within me, or cast it aside? Which relationship means more to me? I was never promised an easy life, but must I shine to contrast the jars of destruction? We are told to speak forth truth. Some are called to die, others to life, and others still to bring death. Is it too pompous to ask why?
