Malediction of Sapience

Mankind has long contented itself with the harsh realities of a hostile and imperfect world, beleiving- each in their own way- that paradise would come to them. Some men worked for the promise of a better tomorrow, some put their hopes in religion, and yet others actively worked to shape the world into their own version of perfection. But these men have been blind to one, very unsettling realization. A realization that came upon a man named Jeffery Jermayne one night.

The revelation, which we will discuss shortly, did not come out of thin air, as many people believe epiphanies derive from. Rather, it had slowly been taking shape in Jeff's mind over the many years. It was not until- during an impassioned, theological debate with friends- he vocalized the concept and its enormity fell on him like a gut-churning sickness. Conversation stopped and the men in the room stared blankly at Jeffery, as if simultaniously daring him to repeat himself and wishing intensely that he would not.

Jeffery politely excused himself from the room, and spent the next two months in seclution. At the end of this period, he had written a manuscript based around his idea. It would be comforting to say that this document has since been destroyed, but I fear that I can make no such claim with any assurance of veracity.

In the mean time, Jeff began showing his book to his peers, trying to generate critical responses. But, no matter who he tried, the results were always the same: his reader looked on his idea with skepticism, then doubt, then rage, then fear, and finally, grim acceptance. They left, older and sadder than they had been.

Jeffery Jermayne took notice of this trend and grew quite suspicious of his idea. At first, he had believed the idea to be his own- the product of his rational inquiry into the nature of humanity. But now, more and more, Jeff felt alienated from his revelation. By degrees, he found himself fidgeting nervously and casting side-long glances at the thinly-bound manuscript.

What Jeffery feared, but would not conciously admit, was that it seemed as if the epiphany had discovered HIM, rather than vice-versa. An irrational and paranoid fear, to be certain, but one that would not leave his mind. And when, after word of his theory leaked to the media and they pronounced it "The death of modern philosophy," Jeffery Jermayne walked off the end of a very long pier one night, and never surfaced again.

The late Jeffery Jermayne's revelation- which I will not elaborate upon with the same grotesque detail that he put forth- was not a terrible dictum that disproved the existence of God or cast doubt on the essential unity of the universe. In a certain light, it almost seems reassuring. Beneficent. It is reflection and doubt that make it disturbing and frightening. The scope of our senseless legacy of war is drawn into all the sharper relief.

Jeffery Jermayne's realization- devoid of thos proofs and justifications that thrilled and horrified- was just this: No man dies without a purpose.

Death is so much more than the end of a single life. It is the very fuel upon which all things are built. We are not cogs in the juggernaught of history, we are the grease between its gears.

Excerpt from "Patron's War"

"There is not now, nor ever has there been, such a thing as in intelligent question," Apathy sighed, swaying back and forth in dismal misery. His blood-stained surgeon's smock was caked in what looked like fresh gore. Off-white sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands scrubbed and sterile, the chiurgeon stumbled to one side and took a seat on the edge of the table. The slick, black stitches that sealed his eyes beneath swollen eyelids seemed to parallel the deep frown of annoyance he wore on his face.

"We've heard you know everything."

"Everything worth knowing. Depressing, huh?"

"Then... you know a way out?"

Apathy shrugged. "I do."

The air was pregnant with anticipation. Minutes passed. Apathy began to whistle tunelessly. He stopped and sighed again. "'Can you tell us the way out of Hell?'" he asked in a falsetto. "I could, but I won't. What good would it do me, if you got out of here?"

"You snivelling little..."

"Disappointing reaction. Anger is a cliche down here, you know. But then, I shouldn't expect too much." He waved a sterile finger at the space just left of where the other man stood. "There are people who get very anxious when I am threatened, you know. More anxious than I care to contemplate, honestly, but that is Indulgence for you."

"Why? You help them often enough, why can't you help us? We could give you anything!"

Apathy fixed his stitced-up sockets on the other man, giving him the distinct impression that the Sin was trying to roll his eyes. He eventually gave up and just sighed once more.

"I know it is hard to accept, but face the facts: You are in Hell. Forever. What would you do if you got out? Where would you hide from the Angels and Reapers? For how long? A decade? A century? A thousand centuries? Do you think they will just say, 'ah, well, I suppose we'll let this one slide,' and let you go? It is meaningless. Trivial. You might as well give up."

"There's got to be something... some hope..."

Apathy gave him an apologetic smile and shrugged helplessly. "All I can do is give you a little false hope, if you'd like. 'It'll all be okay. You are terribly important. You'll find a way out without anybody's help.' Any good?"

"Or," he offered, pulling a hacksaw from the operating table and brandishing it suggestively, "I could operate. You won't care about Eternal Damnation afterwards, I promise. Doctor's honor."

The other man spat in Apathy's face and stormed from the derelect hospital.

A figure detatched itself from the shadows and stood behind his counterpart. "You are taken with lying these days, my sweet friend?" The voice was rasping and infectious, like oil split on a torrid sea. It actually sounded forked.

"I like you better with the mask on," Apathy lamented, leaning forward and resting his chin in his palm as the man's spit rolled down his cheek. "Anyway, I thought I'd lie for a few weeks. See if it discourages these daily chats. No change so far, I see."

Passion's inhuman snout was inches from Apathy's ear, whisps of smouldering ash blowing out in breathless anticipation. "We worry for you, dear man. Kings should not wile away their days with isolation and meaningless games. So much to do... so many people to do it to..." Passion's tongue langoriously licked his polished fangs, leaving a layer of saliva so thick, it might have been honey.

"Eh."

Passion drew back, still grinning despite the rebuke. "Perhaps tomorrow, then. Averice will come by with gifts. Won't that be wonderful? Then, perhaps, you will share what you know of the Silver Key with your dutiful brothers and sisters?"

Suffer the Slings and Arrows

By the sixth month, Alexi had come to regard the silence of his home as a sort of friend- or more properly, as a guardian. He wasn't sure if it was delusion or his growing inability to deal with the outside world, but he had found himself more and more frequently wrapped up in a rage that had no certain cause. Some timess it was traffic, some times the weather, but most disturbingly was when he realized total strangers were making his mouth sneer, his teeth grind, and his blood boil.

Everyone occasionally gets the paranoid suspicion that the laughing couple that just past you was laughing AT you. Or, that neighbors watch you in the corners of their eyes. Most people even harbor the sneaking suspition that their friends maliciously gossip behind their backs.

For Alexi, these were less uspitions and more shameful facts. If women across the stree began to whisper, it was surely something about him. If a friend slighted him, it was certainly intentional. And any time someone laughed, for any reason or at any time, a furious blush would rise to Alexi's cheeks and he would avert his eyes.

In short, Alexi found himself in a constant state of humiliation, which quickly became silent rage and, eventually, an intense, acute sense of self-loathing. No matter how much anger Alexi could muster against his persecuters, he always turned inward, seeing the flaws and deficiencies that had earned him such universal scorn.

What Alexi understood, but could not rationalize, was that his problem stemmed from an unhealthy, egotistical facination with himself. He knew that people had lives outside of him, but could never hear anything but malicious intent in their stares and mutterings.

If ego was the mother of his problem, fear was certainly the father. He lacked self-confidence and feared the rejection of his peers so much that it just seemed easier to keep to himself. And even as he saw the opportunities for love and happiness slip through his fingers, Alexi comforted himself with the knowledge that at least they weren't making fun of him. Ironically, it was this same cowardice that stayed his hand every time the humiliation seemed too great to bear for even a day longer.

And so, Alexi began to love the silence of his isolation. It was that, or give in and go mad. He tried music first, but began to find even old favorites grinding on his nerves in time. Books seemed logical, but even the sound of his own mental voice had become too much to bear. Every word seemed to echo in his skull with the dull crashing of waves breaking against distant shores. In the end, only silence would do.

Complete, all-encompassing silence. Like the oblivion of dreamless rest, Alexi's life had become a noiseless dream. Waking up began to confuse him, and one day he simply never awoke. His face was not screwed into a pained, furious grimace- though, it was not blissful, either. Alexi's face was utterly neutral, like one who has finally and gratefully sacrificed every joy in life to spare themselves from its miseries.

Finite Philosophy

Before we end this little dance, let me just say how much fun it has been. I mean, we know that death is the only conclusion we're going to get today, but still... thanks.

You know, forgiveness is a strange thing to me. I can't feel it like I can feel hatred. That may be why I did what I did back then- just trying to feel something.

I don't think you hate me. You fear me, sure. And with good reason. But I think that if you knew as much about me as I know about you, you wouldn't begrudge me so much in this little end.

I tried using the hatred, but it's gone now. Just the shadow of a fire flickering against the walls of a cave. It's not real. That's why I think what I'm feeling is the void of compassion. It's very unsettling.

Just a moment longer.

Compassion. Empathy. It relies on the destruction of the most core, human imparrative: That the "self" is more important than the "other." In a way, we obliterate the parts of ourselves that make us who we are, in order to imagine ourselves as someone else. Very near intellectual suicide. Maybe that is why it feels so hollow.

Enough prattle. Onto the climax.

Make sure the rope is tight. I'd hate to waste your time by dangling.