Most peculiar is he, this omniscient third voice of mine, oft leaves me pondering who in this magisterial comedy plays the fool, audaciously transgressing The Tenet - that most fragile membrane of sanity, a murmured whisper housing the chaos; bless it be, thy sanctioned solitude and sanctuary, convent and confinement, pasture and prison. Grieves he –our Yorik- as He had grieved before him, watching them as they stood, alone, that once alone, then forever -once at a time- alone, each alone by the other’s side, likewise alone. Creatures of heaven where they defying The Order and falling, only then stood they, for the first time together, alone, awaiting a judgment already befallen; and there too, bellowing and gathering in the immeasurable space between Before and After was their sentence and prison forming, a word, alone. The indelible chasm their one worded sentence formed they fought to fill, silly children, with words yet more – manically paper sandbagging a firestorm; to justify and qualify, defend and pacify, ultimately –futilely- to reunify. But first a word they sought to give their sentence word, to turn its obstinate to the mere absurd. ‘Anger’ they fancied, but thought it ought for a more general use, most ideally perhaps to justify each other’s abuse; for they feared not torment, but their torment alone –our intrepid Yorik would claim- the scorn in each other’s eyes no more than reflected shame. For it was ashamed they first became, of their nakedness and –far less - their nudity; the latter so very easy to solve, the former – a humanity unfiltered through a grand aesthetic- destined were they to spend eternity flailing to absolve. For how long can one be despite oneself? Shadowboxing at all times, unfaltering zeal it be the guard against the insanity of its underlying paradox –the First and Third staring the other down, each hurling indictment of ‘Clown’; each blow strategic, mental fists magical, erecting in their trails mirror after mirror, each trapping the other - spiegel im spiegel - refracting truths like Arvo’s tinkering bells; echoing extraneous conditions, reflections made perpetually less familiar with each examining glance -normalcy far less real than initially thought, truth far less real than ought- each glide morphing them mid flight till they cease being quite what they were, thoughts that once were no longer quite so. But how to trap gliding thoughts, how to freeze their moments to take them apart? Call them Truth: the shepherd of misery. Through it reality made, profanity of incertitude repelled. Call it Truth, the prophet of faith. Call it I, denier of All.
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