To be at once the alpha and the omega, the beginning, and the end, that serpent Jörmungandr whom must without qualm or conscience grasp its own tail till the finality of Ragnarök, that is my purpose and my fate. Thereafter will commence the age of man, past the age of the gods, beyond the times of the immortals, after the last remaining old ones have travelled with conscience clear into the last diminishing rays of the setting sun. Mankind has not the imagination left to conjure magic, no desire for miraculous continuance, not the patience to understand that only age and wisdom can supply contentment.
All faiths are but one faith, equally having birth, growth, flowering, and at the end death and decay. The same painful repeated journey from creation, through understanding and clarity, to the eventual exposition of a reality stripped bare of wonder and mystery. A poisoned chalice filled with naught but the drudgery of a depressing and repetitive existence lacking any element that cannot be seen, touched, tasted, or heard, a quiddity wholly rooted in the substance beneath its feet.
Permanence is not a particularly human characteristic. Homo Sapiens is life form of decidedly fragile nature, subject to simple and irreversible physical incapacitation, constant intellectually paralyzing mental instabilities, unquestionably not the stuff constructed or capable of legend or myth. Conversely this very destructibility can become a mighty advantage, a simplistic shift from physical presence to theoretic ideal, transforming eradication to existential preservation, the creation and eternal perpetuation of idea, concept, moral or purpose.
Can an idea, a word, the word, a voice, my voice, the voice, any voice be stifled by the simple mechanics of obsolescence? We still study, translate, repeat the hieroglyphic representations of the voices of the ancient Egyptian peoples and gods, bowing to their wisdom and power in the same reverence as humankind ever has. The methodology of transmission might change, yet the longevity of the message ever elongates, stone can crumble and dissipate into meaningless dust, but the recordings of those ages are now indestructible and exposed outwardly to a universe beyond our comprehension. The simplest, most meaningless expulsion of air now reverberates eternally loud and clear for generations yet the yet unborn.
Beware when you snarl, that short sharp expulsion could quite innocently result in the next great rising of the perversity of inquisition.
I remember only too well the first time I had mine own cant and unfortunate words quoted back to me as if holy writ. Try as I might my explanation that any statement that might possibly have drooled from my lips was simple illumination meant to pictorially enhance the actual truth in the same way as those wonderful gilded illustrations in old volumes were designed but to frame and highlight the important exegesis they graphically enclosed.
It was at that moment that I first realized I had transcended beyond the mortal to the immortal, from simple artisan writer to exalted god. That there are people walking the planet who know my words, repeat them verbatim and yet have no personal understanding of me, of my complexity, of my reasoning, of my curse is simply sacrilege, abomination. Without context, commonality of experience or emotion there can be no understanding, and decidedly no proselytization under any condition.
How joyous would I be in the certain knowledge that all my writings, my banal utterances, each and every thought that so insidiously and unnecessarily formed in my brain and heart could be easily eradicated, perhaps included with the carrion of my decomposing corpse to be consumed, forgot, erased so finitely as if never existent even as the slightest stain upon the face of creation.
That we exist entirely in a theatrical happenstance of our own construct is a concept fundamental opposed to accepted thought. The possibility that each moment of seeming existence is but an aberration of our own making, good, bad or indifferent, that every interaction is in actuality but a manifestation of self-controlled duality, a self-perpetuated production of wholly chance occurrences spooled into a skein by an independent subconscious and knit haphazardly in a new unique pattern every millisecond.
It that is truth, revel in it, plunge wholeheartedly into the acidic waters, merge quite contentedly with the cosmos itself.