A force of nature in its most raw, naked of states is more often than not quite volatile, that is to say, vulnerable yet formidable nonetheless. Susceptible to influences yet before whom only the gruesomely foolish like any who believe in the merits of allegiance, would deign to consider lightly. Markedly foreign strangers to the degenerative luxuries of self-deceit are those rare forces the mystified onlookers would deem as beasts. They know only an indigenous habitat of fire from which to draw sustenance. Know only a den of flames in which to disappear and succumb to slumber. Encumbering fat of inactivity is burned away in the kiln of their existence before such hominid nonsense might potentially amass. In this kiln, the fire burns with an elusive yet unmistakable essence. In some instances this essence is known as creation and in others cruelty. However this may be, the wise shall not be deceived, for these are but variable and interchanging facets of the same force. Scalding baptisms the beast undergoes daily bare raw and naked what greater realities loom beneath and above and beyond the eggshell-thin thresholds of the zoo in which you now languish oh you sad and desperate creature who now reads this poison, this lie more true than everything you love that a distant stranger now vomits before you.
Lo the dwindling phalanx of artificially moulded swine appearing as a crown of bloody fireflies in the distance whilst repeatedly attempting to engulf the beast's defiant coils. Pitiful infantry caste, their feigned nature mirroring that of any caste. Only by turning upon themselves and devouring their own infrastructure are they able to acquire the holy attributes desired by the iconic benefactors of their respective cult. In short, the glorified practice of incest, the sustained longevity of bloodlines grown desiccated and sterile. This practice may be of a nature either tangible or metaphysical, it matters not, both are eventually fatal. Though you, yes you, engage in this practice still. Alas, I suppose in the end, fatality visits all things.
Do you unquestioningly adore the colors and patterns of the flag symbolizing the kingdom into which you incidentally fell into this life from the oblivion that looms between a pair of bloody legs? Or perhaps the various notes of its language? Are the boundaries marking this kingdom perceivable in the realms discernible by the various senses, the most imminent reality in this life? Or do they exist merely as lines laid out across the most recently drawn maps, a glorified equivalent to a retarded man's imaginary friend? Do you drool like a priest at a podium over the idealized features prevalent amongst the those currently residing in your perfect of kingdom of gods?
Make no mistake little creature, should you truly believe those mortal objects of your affection to be so incorruptible that they will remain intact and unchanged in the light of a century's passage, then your holy relic is already dead. You may as well be clinging to a miscarried fetus. Make no mistake little virus pretending to be a mythological animal allegedly known as a human being, if you hold allegiances of any form you are thence rendered nothing more than a cult member. An usually lucky slave and nothing more. Everything is black and white in the unnatural sanctuary of master and servant. The unattainable vision of paradise beholden to all religions be they of ancient definition~ Hindu or Zoroastrian, or contemporary~ Politics and Academia.
Even if the efforts of the crusading swine eventually yield a victory over this beast, the formers' 'triumph' would be of a self-evidently pyrrhic nature. The flood your soldiers' casualties shall reach such an awesome crest than no potential human reward can be reaped from your desiccating efforts. Ask yourself slave, are the hypothetical ends promised by your bloody efforts really something you arrived at by your own accord through a process of abstract rationality? Or is it merely borrowed rhetoric passed back and forth innumerable times between the lips of cultists after hearing it immaculately spill from the lips of their precious icon? All in the confines of your sanctuary of master and servant.
Your sanctuary is such fragile thing. Surely this is why you insulate it so well. You cannot bare the searing glare of greater reality. Its force and fury burns your senses and forces you to weep in front of those you wish to bedazzle and subjugate. Surely this is why you flee back to the confines of your doomed sanctuary again and again. Reincarnated lifetimes of waste, inevitably collapsing under the weight of redundancy.
The reality displayed in the roaring of the beast eclipses the combined weight of all words spoken by master and servant of mere cult throughout history. Even if the massive beast dies, I will remain for a while in the form of affliction-baring vermin crawling through the ashes of your disrupted sanctuary. Make no mistake, I do not speak these words to illuminate you. Just as the strong force of the beast's overpowering voice transcend your understanding, so too does the subtle force of the poison now emanating from my hands. The strong force at the beasts' disposal slew those guarding your crumbling sanctuary, they who experienced the fatality of living. Now you survivors, cowering in the shade of alcoves hewn of wreckage, no longer the idealized figures adorning your peeling frescoes. The subtle force of my venom shall lull you to the fatality of knowing.
Copyright Wiley Trieff 2015.