I went looking for the others, those like me. But they turned out to be too much so for my liking. I could stand them only slightly more than I could stand myself.
Our very existence is an expression of cowardice, of weakness. The denial of Darwin, the rejection of reason; faith unfounded.
Blindly accepted, indoctrination unseen, unquestioned, unopposed, mother to child, diseased and dismissed, unfixable, broken.
Landfill material sold as green pastures. Forgiven or forgotten, formaldehyde in the formula, fluoride in the fountains, flaws in the fabric; feedback blotting the fibonacci.
Replicated, I fell into it…
I remember he would say; pray for me, but don’t pray for me to change. If you pray for my conversion you are cracking your creed, laying layers on your own conceived damnation, and insulting me and mine.
That what I worship and work with lost language long ago. The closest thing I’ve got to gods are my gods. You can’t recognize them as I do, see what I see and still see yours in the same light.
That is not due to their or my superiority, it is due to their very nature and the angle of the light. Just as any meaningful recognition of your God on my part would sully the waters with mine. Leave me and them be.
My ways are wild. My universe muddy but I’ve been overly mild in my approach so as to not make too much of a mess of the space we share.
Truth be told, he’s a coward, like me. He would correct me and claim survival. That it is more important to stay alive, strategic and chill, than crash and burn.
He knew from the very moment that ‘he’ began. All claims of unawareness are a sham. Even the he himself was to hide multiplicity. Identity and personality were created based on negating their very existence. He knew how and why he was here. He knew what was going to happen. He knew from the visions, even in the womb. The hows, however, were a mystery. Going forward and back there was self-imposed blindness; some repairable, some wiped at the source. Offline moments, blackout, gnosis. Intentional all; self-imposed butchery.
If anyone got to know him well enough he would have a tell, but few did. Most of those who did ran away. I remember the days when he would writhe, shift, change, and howl through the night. A real horror show and I remember those strange witches that tried to hold him. The two that tried to trap him and the three that set him free.
There is a church upriver of Kebek the Europeans built using their devil as a steed. One of the high witches took me there to bind me, to see the devil’s rocks in the church walls. To walk the path of the hooves that dragged stone from ships on the so-called St. Lawrence. Rather than tame, the church, the path, the road, the river, served to set me free. The spirit storms on the shores of Kaniatarowanenneh that night revealed a pattern and passed a key. He thought they’d die, but they escaped through crevasses, the river, and into the sea.
© EschatonLife
This piece is included in Eden Bloom Eschaton Life
