Ravings of a Bureaucrat

[Callistus 989]

 

Spoiler

 

Ontological Attestment of God’s

 

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Eyes.. manifold. They gaze upon the frail doings of man, but they behold only black. Fate is woven by that which lies behind the eye. And you are naught, but a little thing under the cold whim of an ancient hymn. You lie beside sin, a pool of blood. But you know naught, only a cord to be strung about beneath greater fingers. Old, pale digits.

 

All lives, to they, are playthings. And you, too, amount to naught, in the grand court of things.

And yet look upon the sea, the waters, how they churn at the coming of tides. . 

 

But look no further. I have seen men. Simpletons, that peered unto the thrashing storm. The shoddy peasants. Knew they not how the gaze of a Mortal is so fragile? Knew they not of Ghamallach’s fate, who, upon hearing the speech of God in his grave, lost his ears?

 

Even his children were born accursed. And their children thereafter, and so it was, forevermore. A convicted folk, they had become, damned by the hand of God, to heave the weighty burden of their sin. The devils’ whores. They knew not, the poor things, that some reaches are not meant to be trodden.

 

And yet they did.

And look where they are now. 

Look, I said! 

 

Such is their existence… brittle, like the nails of mein foremother, the old grandmother. God rest her. 

And even she indulged unto such blasphemy, curses be upon her.

Like a feeble worm unto an wolf. 

Indeed, they say God is one, but what yet confides them that God is even that? God is many, as is God also dead. Wrought to his grave by the sin of unscrupulous Man. He is dead, and for that, man is responsible. 

 

Fools.. and you presume God is only dead? I pity your ignorance.. For it is so rotten, and brings unto me only great laughter. Always had the shallow knowledge of such foolish men as yourselves brought me curiosity. Pour blood upon a basin, much like the blood-bending kinsfolk of yore, and they wonder why their names are stained. And their vows are broken. And by God, they are forgotten. Humorous, is it not?

 

Their tongues are always flailing, to and fro, hither and thither, but they bear repentance never. So be it, let them decay under their hollow graves, their putrid sarcophagi, coffins of black dirt. Let them suckle on the devil’s teat, to my disconcern. But soon comes the day, in which they will writhe like pigs wallowing their snouts in the muds of arrogance. And yet even more; they are so cursed, blind, they deign that God is two. It is only their eyes that are wrong, mind you. Hence their words are also corrupt. They may attempt to speak the truth, that lingers in their mind, but their tongues are botched; their words are twisted in their mouths, and thus their speech also comes out corrupt. And appears as such. But worry not, it is only the sinful that brave such demise. For is it not their sorry fate, to lap at anguish?

 

Oh, you waning souls.. Your woes frighten me. And I concede, that it may frighten also any saint. And is that not what I am?

A saint.

 

Wretch, plead me favour unto God..

I do not wish to suffer death.

Shed my skin, akin to serpents.

And bare me afresh.

 

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God Bless, Reader.

Viedrick Wledyr verch Attre