recalcitrant

this is unedited.

------ enjoy the silence.




beware the dreams of the man who is smart enough to know what is going on.

beware his words, for they are drawn from the same well as his nightmares.

beware those who would ignore this man.

beware those who would shun him.

nothing ever grew legs before flopping up on to the beach and dying for thousands of years.

and no man who has seen what I have seen would trade these dreams to be re-submerged. there is no worse nightmare than ignorance. there is no worse nightmare than to know the truth and to disregard it. there is no greater crime.

but those who have the dreams, the dreams that are like scalding hot truth poured over your eyes, truth is like air.

it is the air for those of us who grew lungs long before we'd found our way from the ocean, and found our way out barred. it is air for us scraping towards the surface of the water, rapidly shortening of breath yet reaching no closer to our salvation. we are sucked down by the sinking ship we are trying so desperately to escape from.

do you have these dreams?

do you long desperately to breathe that air of truth?

it is so cruelly ironic that things were status quo until we noticed we were drowning. it is not until his deathbed that a venemously secular man can find God. it is not until we push for the surface that we realize something is suddenly, irreparably wrong. if we drown down here, there's no going back.

it is finality that really haunts the truth dreamers.

once you start the dreaming, those eyes can never again close. you cannot allow them to close, for then you are just as dead.

but as all messiahs before me, I know the way you seek.

I know it because I have travelled it many times, yet always turned back. the dreams push me further every time, yet...

does not the visage of that ghastly beach terrify you? do not the infernal imps of that place roar at you to turn away?

for, truly, what if these lungs don't work?

I read the doubts in your eyes, which is a fine compliment, but I disagree: it laughingly fits us to have an ironic messiah. what is a messiah who is afraid of sacrifice? what is a messiah that believes not in transcendence, but finality? it is a messiah which has grasped a yarn of truth and knows its nature.

yes, I am the messiah. for I know the path to the truth.

and I have seen the truth. or, at least, I have seen a glimpse of the truth. to see the truth is to glimpse a cosmic behemoth through a keyhole. but it can be seen! yet it is our nature to believe we can only see it unless we view its entirety. it is a transcendence of the mind to see even that much, yet we turn away without looking for it seems hopelessly mundane. it is quiet next to the dull roar of the stunning marquee of mediocrity that surrounds us.

the truth is quiet.

we do not glimpse through keyholes because we are perfectly satisfied drowning within the room in which we're in.

we do not realize we can look through the keyhole many times. that realization is truth. that realization is the punchline of a subtle joke told over martinis. that realization is the only humor available to the dreamers.

the truth is that we can open our eyes to find ourselves drowning in an ocean. the truth is asking how we breathed for so long, so absurdly, but is not the answer to that question.

when I look away from the keyhole I feel as though my eyes are stitched open at a movie. I feel as though the sound of the room will crush me to the floor.

that is why the truth is quiet.

and I ask: how can one who is so used to being screamed at interpret a whisper? how can one whose eyes are boiled by the light of lies see something so imperceptible as the keyhole in the door?

do not answer my questions. answers are lies. questions are truth.

answers are the whisperings of millions of imps into megaphones. answers are the soldering work of a ham-fisted buffoon. answers are those things you rabidly consume to insure you are never tempted to look through the keyhole.

the imps tell me that silence is terrifying. they tell me that silence is the drowning death of a man whose eyes are open.

sometimes I wonder how many messiahs have gone to the keyhole and drowned.

or have gone mad from the sight of that great beast behind the door.

my dreams are dreams of finality. it is to cope that I am paralyzed by distraction. I am paralyzed by the threat of the vacuum status quo leaves behind. the liars know this and cease with no efforts to remind me. nature does not abhor a vacuum. a vacuum is truth.

my dreams are of liars. when questions have no answers, lies are but a cacophony and do not hide the truth: they annihilate it. there is one truth, but thousands of lies, like an infinite maze of one-way street signs and traffic controlmen. as long as you are tuning out one lie so as to hear another, you will never hear the silence of truth.

order is a lie. a signpost to the truth will always lie to you because the truth can never be pointed at. to point is to lie. to point is to separate yourself from truth and become order's archivist and historian. for this reason I must lie to you to tell you anything and for that I sincerely apologize. as I said, I am an ironic messiah.

even so, you must remember that the truth is nothing that words can lie about. silence cannot lie. thus the terror of silence is not my own, it is but a lie of imps I echo. we are signal relay stations for lies when we do not yearn for truth. it is only for love of silence that we can even hear the lies we constantly repeat, and only for love of silence that we can quiet them.