Was I wrought as I am by the circumstantial and character influences of my earliest years, or were those experiences imparted to me to prove myself worthy of a calling towards which my early trials were but challenges I had been foreordained to face? Clearly, childhood in all but youthfulness was denied. Bestowed as animals not given suckle with the natural instincts and capacities for survival distant from the breast, I flourished as if by will, yet then refused, and so by necessity, the requirement of fate that I prevail. Many would have perished, perhaps, deprived of both courage and liberty by parents who thought better of themselves for having instilled in their children the seeds of the fear that had blossomed and thorned in themselves. I was not among them. It is the seeming near impossibility of it all, the collision and the coalescence of so many contradictory forces, defying all likelihood, that raises these questions, that urges this enquiry. In nothing being as it should have been, it was precisely as it had to be. In nothing seeming as it was, everything appeared just as portended; exactly as was written, etched, indelibly, on the windowpanes of eternity.
Many of the strongest men and women were broken in their early lives. Scarred, but determined, now standing alone, each of them, raging defiantly, rebelling against all who would torment them, the duped majority and their despotic masters.
Most of the weakest men and women have never been broken. In fear, they fled their challenges unventured, cowering amongst the other impotent in group submission to every threat, both real and imaginary, sycophantic puppets of sinarchist autocracy.
Survival may be attributed to good fortune or to grace. I cannot fall from a favour, a grace, I never sought nor claimed. Good fortune, then, is neither random in its blessing, nor arbitrary in its denial. Certainly, fate may not be compelled, cajoled, or relied upon; and, generally, it seems, everyone gets precisely what she or he deserves, both good and bad. Be that a blessed or a harsh reality, for me, a vast surrender is my only strength. I face the challenges given me to face, grateful for the fortitude to do so.
In every intelligible reality, in belief rendered viable, the place of sacrifice, the wound, must be found. A being is only touched at the point of vulnerability, at that time and place where it succumbs. The wounds of injury, hurt, pain, suffering, grief, anguish, agony, distress, ordeal, trauma are the places the light enters you, to heal you. Though white is not always light, black, not always dark, darkness is surely a diminishment of light, either striving towards or shying away. Darkness conceals, protects; light elucidates, betrays. Though you return to darkness in sleep, it is deepness, profoundness, vividness, not blackness. In sleep, may the wounds be healed, but may the scars remain, reminders of the gauntlets run, the lessons learned, the triumphs won. In dreaming, challenges confronted, traumas overcome, the mercy of isolation deshadowing, disenshrouding all misgiving, virtue, worthiness now exposed.
Become alone, not to avoid hurt, but to claim, to accept mastery over my own destiny, however that might unfold. Become the truth that is magic. You are the magician. Cast yourself – fearlessly. You are the spell. Re-create yourself, as you envision your best creation. Close your eyes, think of somewhere you have never been before; imagine otherworldly impossibilities, dreams within dreams. Fear does not exist, because the mind is no longer in control, but has been purged of all thought save the moment by moment acknowledgement of sensual impetus. Unencumbered may brilliance now unfold .
Long live the aberrant, the activist, the alchemist, the divergent, the eccentric, the exile, the free spirit, the genius, the iconoclast, the inventor, the magician, the muse, the myrmidon, the outlaw, the poet, the rebǝl, the revolutionary, the sorcerer, the sorceress, the visionary!
Find what you love. Die for it, if it does not kill you first. There are only life and death. Die with the same passion, the same obsession, with which you live.
I eat the sins of others. I swallow them whole. I do so that the anguish caused by those trespasses might be borne by me. I do not pardon the penalties for the sins, of course. How could I? Is it not known that the penalty for sin is death? I am no murderer, no agent of expiation. Redemption must be sought elsewhere. Fearless, though, and guiltless, as the crimes are not mine, I believe that I can eat the sins of the culpable, devour them inviolate, undiluted, diminishing the consequences to the erring by embracing those outcomes to myself, my ransom but another gauntlet away, another battle waged and won, another foe subdued. The gauntlets were after all but mine alone to run. As destiny may not be coerced, cajoled, or counted on, how else were I to eat the sins of others? There is no guilt without sin, no sin without offence. But offence wrongly taken may not be made justified, rendering nil the sin, rendering the offence controvertible. This is where we enter, we, the eaters of sin, where sin is but equivocation. Dauntless in the fight, defying all hypocrisy, knights errant on errands of destiny, vigilantes, rectifying, delivering retribution where all other justice is duplicity.
Of course, all of this is sacrilegious, is it not? Yet without religion, can there be sacrilege?
It is unlikely that the divine by any name would have such fragile conceit as to be in any way offended by those who disbelieve.
À la recherche de licornes. 