My dream –
In the midst of a bustling crowd, diverse in every configuration, alone, yet not isolated, defying focus, or any other contradictory effort, lifelong schizophrenia notwithstanding, I was suddenly cast into trance which ushered me into the fastness of a dense grove, concealing the derivation of a stream, beside which I sat on a smooth flat stone, surrounded by others, decidedly more angular. The colours were every hue of grey, brown, and green; texture bestowed by light and shadow.
No one else was there, but a presence, nonetheless, perceived synaesthetically, in the earth, in the stones, in the trees, in the air, all around and through me. Undeniably, poet, warrior, sorcerer, I had been summoned, my labour forthcoming. It was not the first time, of course, but it had been a while; a while during which I had found new balance, weapons honed once more, dauntlessness still fearless, foolhardiness diminished. In wait, raising my head, I listened, I watched, alert in every fibre of my being. And so it was given.
Extinguish the evil, no mercy granted, no prisoners taken, no battles prolonged. This is the moment of retribution, of rectification, of redemption. Act now to end the scourge. Rise now, for there is not an instant to delay.
Your path will be cleared. All of the iniquitous will fall; their toxic lives rendering toxic deaths. Acquiescence, compliance, desperation, fear, sycophancy – no pretext forgiven. Whole organisations will topple. Governments will implode; their leadership, their backing, their following, corrupt, self-serving, servile, infected to their core, succumbing. The church that lies, will die. Its god but dread condensed into a lesserness of one, man imposing, posing, an authority not its own; its congregation but beseechers of pardon for the sin of belief in the fallacy that weakness might prevail coalesced upon the worshipped icon of deceit. The very virus from which they trust in their god to protect them will strike them dead, breathless before their pulpitted charlatan.
The inferior race, the white race, a mutation of weakness, in its feebleness, contriver of schemes of power, dominance, supremacy, poisoning everyone and everything it touches in its deformity, though it appears immune, guilty in fact of every monstrosity, with seemingly more to lose, will lose all before their meagre lives are taken.
Go now. When you reach the man at the top – mortal winning-post exalted, dressed in the winner’s garments and, man-like scarecrow, hailed in the wooden name of God, resist the urge to take his life forthwith, that his blood might not pollute the earth, that his tears might not contaminate the waters, that the stench of his breath, his sweat, this urine, having pissed himself in panic, might not defile the very air. Instead, that he might feel and know the full extent of the hurt caused by him and his, cut him – do not stab him – 108 times – this, the number reached, demanded, by multiplying the senses of smell, touch, taste, hearing, sight, and consciousness by their painfulness, their pleasantness, their neutrality, and then again by whether these are internally generated or externally occurring, and yet again by past, present and future, finally rendering 108 feelings – for him, 108 sufferings.
When completed, before alarm is raised, before defence required, no wrong done, no guilt felt, right made right, the entire world bearing witness, the origin and cause of the virus eliminated, the virus, too, will end – then, there, everywhere. Commission accomplished, the virus – but the manifestation of malfeasance unconstrained – will self-consume.
Go. Your destiny awaits.
À la recherche de licornes. 