Echoes of Light

Light. You, mortal observers of a forever-dimmed worldview, would not believe light as I had experienced it entering the world. This light inundated nascent senses like billows of tsunami madness made of godly pleasures; the whiteness was that of a perfect blindness when all you see is the face of Everything and it struck your body, the soft fleshy weakness of a human infant’s body. It struck my body, enveloped me in its blessing, and it nurtured me with the Everything of our universe, the secrets of it, and when I emerged the bursting gates of an eternal hell into a mortal suffering, I knew I had to return to it, the endlessness of light. Aristotle claims that we are born from the void with the knowledge of our entire former life, of an eternal knowledge, and are born into amnesia. The mortal suffering seems to be one fraught with the pain of constant amnesia. At least, this is what he claimed for you, mortal observers of a constantly hemorrhaging mind.

They said something was wrong with me, that I did not respond to stimulus the same way they did, their pitiful shortcomings as mortals. I did not cry when I exited the “womb”, nor my birth-giver’s fleshy gates, nor when that man of the white cloth struck my behind. When he struck my behind, I likened it to a disciplinary action, subjugating those who enter the world into a complacency and understanding that their lives, from therein forth, was to be pain and suffering. Your first moments were to be shrieking and writhing. I observed the other infants, the souls damned without vision in their creation, the blinded bats of Nothingness that raced into the world because they were too afraid to wait and see, the cowards that did not deserve to know Everything. And in denouncing that privilege, they could not become Everything.

The doctor suggested there be tests done on me, that I was not right; I heard and understood him. Because I was not wretched, he wanted me disposed. Perhaps he was right. I was too immaculate to exist. The human who forced me to call her mother, when my body finally caught with my mental faculties and the tongue could flicker from it words, insisted she take me home. From then on, I knew that human emotion, this constant fluctuation of amnesia that wrought suffering to the mind of the blind, was a pox. I so loathed it. It kept me in the dark, in the Nothingness, in a world where the only facet of Everything I embodied was my acknowledgement of the Nothingness surrounding me. Men in white cloth everywhere, men emulating the light that I was born of, called it many things. They called it God, they called it Science, they called it Allah and Buddha and Nature and Jesus Christ and Love and The World. As I grew, I came to learn that I was the light they referred to, and these messiah figures must have been myself in past lives. Yet, I do not they could have been, as they let the human emotions of constant amnesia plague their existence.

I spoke with a sheep one day, this pleading joke of a creation, and he begged of me to end him. There was nothing wrong, physically, but he and I both knew what the Everything was. His existence was suffering, and so I ended him so that he would return to it. I knew then, with the blood of a shepherd’s truest duty on my own hands, that I had to become a hero for these people.


He was blood-drenched, this figure stumbling down the cathedral walkway with the stained glass figures of 24 different saints imparting their forgiving glances at him. The blood was two-fold: one was the human life pouring down his body in four different crimson rivers from four wounds like plagues and the other was the bitter fermented blood of Christ, a forgone savior, that drenched and stung the human wounds. His garbs, his beautiful white cassock, were streaming with the agony of a crying father, the tears of the man, the body, and his giver. Wolf’s blood never ran so fast. The crooked bent of tongues, his fleshy whitening snake, seemed to work its fastest when drowning in the discovery of its lies.

Watching from the pulpit, from the pedestal of paupers pretending to be pontiffs but only paid pipers, was Umberto. In his left hand, he clutched a crooked bow whose muted wood crept in serpentine paths between the spokes where an invisible line held both ends. His one magenta eye simmered in the broken rays that shuffled quietly through the stained glass, glaring on the dying man. He descended the stairs behind the pulpit, each step echoing like titan roars in the cathedral, and his head bobbed silently in the dusty breeze. Umberto entered the choir. He stood witness before the blasphemed altar where the blood of clothed men ran violent lines across sacred planes. The men who tainted the altar were still there, collapsed and imprisoned in the stretching lakes of their own mortality fleeing from them, moaning and begging God for mercy.

Umberto glanced behind the altar onto the great gothic window, the fragile wall carrying the annals of saints in a series of pleading eyes as they wrapped around the choir. He took a cloth from his pants, a white blindfold, and wrapped it into a fine point. He then took the brandy, the golden spirit quivering in a chalice where diamonds gilded the edges in revolution of the sifting drink. Umberto looked into it, and he saw his face.

His cheekbones jutted from the face like icebreakers, and the skin colored these conquerors rosy. His shifting eyes absently filled the conscious of everything that looked into them, save Umberto, and the Midas mirror seemed to make waves in their presence. He dipped the cloth into the liquor. The soft dunking sound, the silent drip of a constantly exploding universe in the moments where the most collected reticence is the cooldown of a nuclear fission energy feasting on the life force of millions of entities, resonated in the chambers. The cloth leaked as it rose. It was drenched with golden spirits.

Umberto walked down the nave, his sheathed blade scraping down the red flesh of the cathedral belly. He seemed to glide. His tread was so resolute. He glanced about the aisles, the pews littered with the kneel of dead men, of beggars of clapped hands leaned forward as their falling head exposed the back of their necks where the zipper of their false sheep’s skin could be seen. He saw the blinded lives run amok like cinema inferno in the reflection of their blood pools. He looked again at the last man, this crucified crux of Faith, and he took the cloth in his right hand. With his left he embraced the priest’s throat forcefully, nuzzling so tight that his larynx would undoubtedly collapse at the slightest break of his mercy. “Please,” strained the priest, “do not kill me, please. How could you kill us priests? We have done nothing to you.”

Umberto quietly and slowly stuffed his mouth with the bitter rag, suffocating him with the gravity of golden spirits. Not a single word escaped his mouth. He reached into his pocket and drew a lighter. An existential pandemonium entered the priest’s eyes, crimson rivers cracking through the pure abyss of his pupil, the dark rings of celestial beasts encircled his eyes, the salt licked waters of a true baptism ran like the Euphrates and Tigris down the rollicking flesh of his sunken cheeks, and his nose burst like dripping orgasmic volcanoes with a whimper of agony. “Please!”

The prayer, yes it was exactly that when the priest realized what had been undertaken, was muffled but still audible. Again and again and again, until his voice was drowned out by the dripping brandy, this pneumonia kind of a clear color now. He was drowning on golden blood of redeemers when clearly none would show. Umberto grabbed his collar and dragged him down the nave once more, into the audience of the twelve fishmongers, and softly placed him propped against the altar. “I did not mean to touch them! I am tempted by Satan, please! Give me a chance!”

Umberto walked to the steely gates of the cathedral, leaving the immobile sinner at his pyre on blood and false flesh and the running of tongues that always spoke nothing. Everything in this room was nothing. So, Umberto returned in kind, and did unto nothing all it was worth. He drew his bow, doused the cloth-wrapped arrow in oil and lit it. His face had not changed once during the entire ordeal, for it never felt the need to feel. He plucked on this bowstring and let fly bright and fiery Nothing. The priest screamed and only then, when the charring ooze of his glazed eyes peeled and dried and the color left in smokes, did he see Everything. Was it that he screamed because no words could describe the utter pain his body felt or because no words but the most human and primal of energy could describe the Everything?

Umberto, on leaving, pressed a button and the 8th century cathedral was engulfed in flames.




Today I heard that the local cathedral’s leaders had been accused of molesting the village’s children. But, of course, the deluded minds of men trying to discover the Everything without the faculty to do so, without my gift, would succumb to insanity. They take to heartily to the pleasure of impermanent things, such as themselves and their beliefs, and so they try to convince others of its permanence and they sway them to their depravity. The amnesia of the Everything drove their suffering to inflict more so on others, because they try so hard to emulate the lie of Nothing to mean Everything. Idiocy. I will end their suffering as I did that sheep, and in it the world will realize the folly of divine existence, for the God they envy, I have learned, I am him.  And so I will expose the world to Everything, to the Echo of Being that resonates in the understanding that is only granted to those bathed in the lights of a world that supersedes our own. I may be thought of as a demon, as a terrorist, as the Devil, or I will be recognized as God himself. Nonetheless, I will bring an end to their suffering, as it must be done. I do not care for the children, or the justice or other constructs of a suffering people. I do not want, for I have an obligation to the world to share the Everything with them.

Copyright 2014



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