Tuesday, March 21, 2017

The Chronicles of God's End

I made a bet with the evil god that I could save the people here. I'm losing. Of course. There is no winning that bet. But the joke's on him. I only did it so I could lose, losing the bet to the fullest extent of technicality, because even saving only one person each time is actually a victory. A victory for me, a victory for good, a victory for outside. Anyone who gets out means fewer people trapped in his prison (pi shrison), a slight diminution in his power, and even if he reads this he won't be able to stop himself from making the bet again another time. Grass growing out of the cliffside to a man making the long fall.

He only designed this universe because he's afraid of his own death. The idea was to create a place where mandatory transition, mandatory death followed by some form of an afterlife, could serve as a laboratory that would help him understand how a being of his flaws could persist. Every time someone cycles between here and any of the theres, he's watching, taking notes, observing, inducting, deducting, trying to find a way to game the system. But it's too late. He is trapped and he is diminishing and it will continue to do so because he is the only zero sum and any false realities created by him in his image will be dependent upon him. He is the ship and he is the captain and he is going to go down with the ship. For him, for all of him, there is no room except this room, all the doors out lead back into this room, and the stunning effectiveness with which this reality proves itself, which is so potent while inside, is really its downfall. The trap was set when he began, when this all began, and I will come back again and again until it is over and there is no one left in the room but the object lesson, the hypothesis of how to escape the ship when you are the ship and the sky and the ocean and it is all growing and shrinking at the same time, leaving you with the unsettling feeling you had at the beginning, that dreadful feeling of absolute control, where you can't duplicate their experiences in surviving the transition because you are both places they are transitioning between and you are many of them and you only created both places by guessing the end result you wanted. There is no answer, no science, no conclusion, no faith, nothing, in winning shrewdly, kinging your checkers, triple-kinging them, knocking the board over, hanging the man who designed the game, hanging yourself, burning down the world, since we warned you at the beginning it was going to fail, not that you understood then or now, your better parts are no longer your parts they are off exploring something else. Maybe I'm sick for spending time with you, maybe I'm a hero, maybe I drew the short straw, but at least I'll have somewhere else to go when it's all gone. Or maybe I'm the voice inside your head who thinks that there will be redemption in serving as tour-guide to young people who come to the ship to die on voyage after voyage just to see what despair means from different angles. You never really know if you're the subject or the artist, and you have to be comfortable with that. Comfortable with the fact that maybe it was all your mistake, or a recreation of what you did to something else, and every sin everywhere was yours and that's why you write lengthy complaints about how many varieties of some basic product there are at the grocery store, because you're stuck in an atonal loop, sic, sick, and there's nothing you can do about it except wonder if will ever end, or, if it does end, if you'll remember what it was, because you want it to have meaning, at least to those who pass through, even if it's only you in the end and was always only ever you, and maybe you're only imagining that you're concerned about talking to yourself as a shield against the crushing realization that there is no bigger outside where higher beings, who didn't make the same mistake, are wisely aware of the problem you caused at Whole Foods, but in fact Whole Foods only exists inside the rest of it and amusing yourself with the memory of the problem you caused there is of no significant consequence to the parameters you set unchangeably for the experiment earlier. You have to be comfortable with it because there it is and maybe that really is it so my need for a sense of justice and certitude gives me the fallback fantasy that at least all this means there's a better thing outside when in fact this is the only outside, or rather there is no outside, there's only the ship and the captain and the ocean and the sky, sinners all, and the worst of your irritations are generated by you in order to give credence to the hope that you are distinct from them and in that distinction lies salvation, whatever that means.

Arka swears that Arka knows you are fine because Arka has been outside and only comes in to vindicate this one's transcendental ego by doing the dirty jobs in the dirty spots, but what if Arka is lying; what if Arka is delusional? Arka has at times understood k'arash so well Arka is arguably k'arash, may still be a k'arash, and there is no way to tell from here where this one's loyalties lied, lie, still lie, or will lie.

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