Today is the day when people murdered God.
A very powerful story, an unprecedentedly
outrageous guilt trip to lay on people. The legacy
we have been bequeathed is exorbitantly dramatic,
holding the soul prisoner to a guilt so profound, so damn
infuriating, it makes the people it deals with sad, or mad, or
stupid and penitent, confused and forever haunted. It turns them
into monks and crusaders, believers and hypocrites, into wolves and sheep –
not the adorable, gentle lambs Christ spoke of, but dumb, mindless livestock,
like the priests – our self-appointed shepherds – always envisioned owning.
Priests: the worst ones of the lot. They seek power like everyone else, but
pretend to represent good nature. They seek to control people’s lives,
eager to tell them how to live and speak and what to eat and think
and how to relate to each other. They want to receive everyone’s
money and resources, to infiltrate their minds and dreams –
a dirty, sinister game played in the name of redemption,
turning rational people like me into blasphemers and
reactionaries, into pariahs and heretics, forcing
us to react brashly, making us call things as
we see them, incurring the wrath of God
for our terrible insolence (or so claim
the priests, the sheep, and the mad,
slaughter-loving crusaders). So they all say
in shrill, loud, guilty voices, looking to make up for
the shame handed down to them in the form of legacy –
a twisted, perverted means to spiritual salvation – their aim to
keep instructing you and me and whoever they happen to encounter
on what is right, keeping us on the straight and narrow, commanding us
not to stray off the path, making sure they have the last word. Only the monks
stay silent, meditating and praying. Blessed be their names and actions.
These truly holy figures have kept in touch with the Divine in its pure,
spirited form, keeping in mind and close to heart the fact that the
material world is fraught with ill contradiction, which no amount
of sermoning can absolve. They pray silently in their chambers,
their lives devoted to something greater than dogma, trying
to compensate for the crusaders’ actions – the crusaders,
who are busy pillaging the land – and for the shepherds’
love of shooing men and women behind fences, where
they keep them barricaded and sequestered. They
pray for these people. They talk to God. They tell
no one. They feel no guilt or shame, no need to
overcompensate, just a profound sense of
connection with the undeniably divine . . .
Today is the day when God was executed.
A reminder of how everything is mortal,
yet, at the same time, eternal and
forever active, depending on
how much time has elapsed.
Too little time and even
the immortal dies. Too
much time and
the tragic and
with its soul-mangling
systems suffers the mysteries
of time. Like the writer once wrote,
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.
A stark warning to those who deem
themselves above the law, as well
as those who deem themselves
insignificant, penitent, and
looking for sweet
dies, everything lives forever.
Be careful how you set yourself up,
because it will affect you for a long, long time . . .
Today was the day they slaughtered God.
Today is the day when death died.
Your memory will suffer the same
fate. Your name will be tested.
You’ll have terrible dreams,
and will suffer in those
dreams, which I will
haunt when you
least expect it,
to live forever.
You don’t get it?
Nobody cares! My
voice will go with you.
That’s all that matters.
Try to get rid of me.
See if you can.
From the collection of writings EON: THE ANGRY COMING OF AGE