un peu de cataclysme 1
“For it is ever Solace, siren, that does find us all undone.”
– The Book of the Tower
why have you forgotten?
and when i ask you what it is you have forgotten you will only blink at me with penitent eyes, begging some forgiveness that you cannot earn and i cannot give. why have you forgotten and what will you do to remember? what are you willing to do to reclaim what is your own and has been lost? you have already wasted time so precious i cannot express to you the loss. there is always loss, every weak moment, every pitiful pause to gently comfort this bit of self that incessantly whimpers for leniency, clemency, salvation. you have lost so much time. there is no more to waste.
stop it. stop right now that rationalization that you are not to blame, that life has given you such blows that you must repair and retire that you might heal or mend. how much time must you spend licking wounds that would have long since scabbed and healed would you but cease to pick and pry at them? your death is at your left hand, hunting you. you will die. and every moment that you have spent in apologetics for your own aversion to this discomfort does nothing more than hurl immeasurable wealth of moment into the blank depths of gray.
why have you forgotten? what will you do to remember?
have you forgotten since before you were born, or did you learn once and abandon the knowledge as too hard and too much to bear? i don’t know. but i have the memory of your knowledge in my own mind, the knowing of your knowing, and you have ignored it, left it, tossed it aside. for what? this?
around you, what is there that you wish? that you long for and feel driven by? is there anything but emptiness?
the numb cocoon of comfort, the soft yielding of banality and irrelevance, the forgiving gentility of sleep. what pathetic urge of man to be held and comforted and forgiven. this misguided and disgusting drive for some salvation, to be told that his weaknesses and flaws are accepted and known, that he is whole, that there is no fault for his failure, that mother or father or god will love and love unconditionally, and all things can be made good and clean, that man might not be man anymore, but erased, blotted out in incestuous union with the divine.
you still in your heart feel the call of it. denial of this simply slows us so we will ignore your entreaties to debate, to discuss, to consider how you’ve grown and changed. your station and your new life mean nothing. there is still the little boy who cries out for forgiveness, to be saved.
who is the good child?
naf dreg
you know the words and you know the rite and you, at least this, have not forgotten. and this child still lives though you swore his death, you swore it before me and i do not fail in my task. i remember what you forget. the good child. there are only two words left for this and you know them. and they will be your watchword and my lash until you find that you have pulled together such strength as you need to act.
naf dreg
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