He came from the depths of inhuman isolation’s sorrow and fear of imminent and nameless mortality at the hands of an ambivalent god. He came from the tragic and forbidden knowledge of inevitable consensual violation in the bourgeoning breast of innocence. He came from the darkest heart of the most viciously fabricated illusion with the scar of utter desolation in the muted curve of his iris. He was delivered from the most cunningly delicate madness and sculpted by the animate fossils of pure revenge, only to be dropped with pathetic moral indifference on the shores of the corporeal in a billow of aimless down. Here he was found, by a fisherman, no less, and cradled in a wooden cart among thickly corded nets that smelt of the mother sea, infantine, helpless, abandoned. Thus the fisherman became his father and raised him by tavern and trowel to be much the same as any other man, but kept a cold watch on his feet lest they grow fin and return him to his wicked mother. By and by he had a wife, and she a child of their own, and out he was with the boys all night, until only the slightest flint was left to spark his memory. Whether a call brought him to sea, or memory else, he made his plea for the heart of idyll, doe-eyed death. But she would not have him, and stead sent him keenly to wander unkempt like a wild thing, aimless toward anything resembling unknown. So was he lead to us, by fate or not is yet unseen, and from such rudiment as primal mind could conceive he summoned us to the state of our current incarnation; Saints of the never, iconoclasts among children, kings of eternally warring twilight.
He is not, as they say, a god, not even a ghost, or a spirit, or a dream. He is the embodiment of our kind, a race lost to the fringe of reality, living among the dead, dead among the living. He is unlike us only in that he arrived by his own physical will and with memory of the journey. Any one of us could don a cloak of shells and a crown of nettle, carve a staff of malachite and proclaim our self harbinger of involution, but he has done so, and we have not. This difference is stark in conception; The mere act of being has not a shadow of the potency of the acknowledgement of one’s own being. He has beaten us by intent.
And yet he is more than our harbinger and priest, he is a mockery of our vigilance, a puppet show re-enactment of the violence of our condition, a fool in bladed gown. Where his feet touch the ground there is always a tear shed, where his hands interfere there is death or worse to come. This is why he must be killed; The decay of his mind will soon ruin us all.
Did I not mention that he is mad?
end (1)
mantid dreams
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