All prophets well-known amongst men are essentially false. For no seer who has or shall anticipate some great transition that overtakes and transforms countless aspects of the layered worlds which we now occupy, whether through subconscious vision, through clever waking insight, or through some unmentioned means more terrible still, none who carry such liberating burden could be understood by the common mutations of any era, addicted as the latter are to a mere transient illusion, the current status of things, which is ever being destroyed and converted into else. Alas even the mechanisms that most immediately drive observable phenomena, are usually so subtle, yet often at once so transcendent in nature, as to proceed with great revelations all under the noses of most whilst they scarcely ever notice.
Observe yourself false prophet and your legions of doting puppets, whose myriad guiding strings ensnare you from every angle, making you a prisoner as well. Yours are vulgar kingdoms distinguished only by their color-blindness. The senses of the white knight (blind utopian) are awash with delirium from forcing a prolonged stare into the eyes of the sun, unaware of its surroundings, unaware that its shadow cast against the desert sands is the blackest abyss through which his flock cannot see for it has forbidden them to look upon and acclimate to apparent darkness. How you strive and strive and yet the world becomes no less sinful. Who is to blame for this?
Out of this foolish question, an abominable child, the black knight (great manipulator), now comes into being. White knight you fool, all that is dark is not truly dark if you but allow your eyes to see. Now your offshoot, heedless of where it gazes, can see nothing but the abysmal shadow you cast while staring blindly into the brightest sun, fearfully refusing to acknowledge any other. All of creation appears tainted now by this transgressive shadow in the eyes of the black knight who madly seeks for what is to blame. As the white one's senses were burned by the light, so are those of the black one downed in the depths, and in its confusion seeks to persecute all and everything as though this were possible.
Observe yourself new false prophet, you who would strive to control what is beyond your understanding. You order your reformed puppets to purge the nearby seas of serpentine carnivores to help achieve the sinless reality the now crippled white knight failed to acquire. Now strange sea-faring insects, once tiny in stature, bereft of enemies now swell to human size and beyond until there is more of them in the sea than water. They encumber great ships, which sink to the depths under their own wait. They spread strange illnesses amongst your puppets that scholars cannot understand nor doctors treat. So you punish your uninfected followers and demand they now construct many enormous towers between whom are spread puppet strings of another variety like a net across the sky so that none may escape your gaze. Now scavenging beasts from one land cross these bridges of rust into another wherein their enemies are absent and they gorge themselves and spawn with wild abandon until they overrun the fields and villages and there are more of them to be seen than there are trees in the decimated countryside when one gazes fearfully from the ramparts of your city walls.
The tusked brutes have become to the land as the strange insects are to the seas. Why do you weep uncontrollably while in solitude black knight? Why do you curse the sins of your puppets and your predecessor when this is all but the will of gods you claimed to serve? Your tears turn venomous and you demand all who might doubt you be crucified in the streets. This order is carried out, but at the cost of the lives of most your remaining faithful. Now none are present to man your crumbling battlements, and the animals and the plagues and scavengers invade the false utopia built at the whim of false prophets and reclamation begins in earnest. So you seclude yourself in an underground sanctuary with the one companion remaining whom you can still look into the eyes thereof, for those of the now insane and severely aged white knight have been blind to the world around it for many years now.
I wonder how your end will come false prophets, I doubt you would approve of your posthumous portrayals.
Wiley Trieff 2016.
Current Residence: Frozen/Muggy Hell, Iowa|
Favourite genre of music: Whatever's abrasive in the manner I prefer.
Favourite photographer: Look through my favorites, you'll see some of them
Favourite style of art: Caustic, esoteric, transhuman, extremophile.
Operating System: Whatever I can not get caught while using.
Favourite cartoon character: Karl Pilkington, may as well be a cartoon.
Personal Quote: Humans are the progeny of animals yet for unknown reasons given to the behavior of viruses.