& so I tried to cut it from me, cast it far away. To show you all, though it is always better not to see, not to know, by far—
I can show you, now: what I saw, or almost. A black miracle, done brightly. A flame, once lit, burning everything it touches.
But no, don’t: look down, not up—shut your eyes & keep them shut, no matter what you hear. No matter who comes, or what they ask you.
I was wrong to make them, I know that now, any of them. They are not for you, or me.
They are for no one.
My father was convinced that the world would end and we with it, unless we followed after this Call of his. But it did not, & now I think the tragedy is that the world never does end, ever. That it goes on & on, forcing us to go on along as well, until at last there is nothing else, nothing more. Until there is only what was, same as what is and what will be—
Only the truth, which never changes. Truth not made flesh but image, for anyone to see.
For a thought cannot be un-thought, anymore than the world can be un-made, & thus we can never escape the consequences of our mistakes, not without great price, & cost, & pain. Or perhaps not even then.
Oh so hard & all for nothing, all of it, for you will look, no matter what. You must, it being your nature—all our natures.
We always do.