Daughters and sons, in these queer desultory days, the tiredness will seep through your bodies, a shroud you cannot shrug off, and you will long for that burnishing fire, kindled and rekindling, that knowledge that what is within you is a force you have been selected to carry, a great joy for you to contain and at the end of your life, relinquish. Daughters and sons, there will be times when you slowly approach someone wracked with sobs only to realize it is yourself and in these moments, all the things you have believed, which have condensed you into your self, will dissolve.
The muddied waters of your heart may wish to ebb and flow, sloshing gently with bits of love. Daughters and sons, have you heard the church bells, crying out to each other, flung across quads and countries, so beautiful and sensible alone, yet discordant and absonant when heard together as you take a brisk walk in the morning. Their inharmonious glory a glimpse of the chaos of the universe, the cosmos in it’s ever-revolving splendor of dust, flesh, and stars.
Light-footed beasts watch as you animate your body, making preparations for what you believe is to come. Daughters and sons, I watch you agonize over the meaning of things, what you will need, who you should be. Wringing your hands, flinging yourselves across rooms and ideologies….haunted with an inconsolable hope. Daughters and sons, your minds are muddied, sloshing with bits of shadow. I see how this is changing you, suffocating you, this need to be right, this need to be perfect, this need to be ready, this need to be. Daughters and sons, it is not living to constantly prepare for another life.
In your hysteria, daughters and sons, your insistent need to believe, your need to persecute yourself, you are repeating yourself and your days, measuring that which is immeasurable, exulting in a certainty which is yet unknown. You have formed yourself around an emptiness, a void within yourself which you have adorned with all the good you find in the world, yourself a husk of all you have decided is bad, the purpose of your life a search for ways the void can strengthen enough to break through the self. You ask me for this rupture, and my daughter, my son, I will give you another. I will afflict you now with the truth you don’t ask for, the twin tigers of truth yawning their mouths wide, breaking in jaw to let you inside, the universe expecting, palpitating, contractions in my birth of revelation,
The stars throb, with each pulse, oozing more and more of their gaseous glitter, the foundations crumble, heat softening that which has been inaccessible. The ancient crow man will begin to knock with his long beak the door you’ve sealed shut, until it unhinges, gaping. You will be brought to your knees, persecuted, as the universe thrums, that great generator I have been charged with. You will be made to suffer and yet withstand the great pain of truth, the temptation of optimism leaving you with the knowledge that the only certainty is uncertainty, the only feeling you can trust, distrust.