Sisters! Brothers! In This Temple as in the People Whom She Saved for Their Divine Hearts, We Are Beautiful Martyrs

The past echoes like an immense tomb. None of us can live up to our own wet and torrid ideals, red-slick, but also steel-clad and richly ornamented; the truly beautiful is always antonymous with the intimidating. A predicament is discovered: something endured, like a jangled abomination, tongue-tied, an utter immolation of immaculate reasoning, a sickly, rotten energy. It's atrophy at a rapid speed, so fast it rattles the bones, so fast they shatter even as the spasms are completely worthless. It's a disaster. The elderly are either monstrous and absent, or just charlatans. How long will it be until the purpose behind our sentencing is achieved? A frightening tribunal, indeed!

Let's talk about the notion of salvation, and how we ourselves are each a component in the idea.

Who is the Goddess but your creator? I don't mean in the basest sense, the one that will have smirking scholars (who are rightfully abused by the feminised reality of authority) quick to lift one crooked finger. No, here I am asking you about the face behind any pretension of a mask. You can tread soft ground, feel some kind of cold light from the artificial sun of harsh, black Menzoberra, the agony of her antonym, you can couch your terror in the cool gestures of someone who is Only Pretending, and die a little slower that way sometimes, or otherwise you can accept that the idea posed to you that there is but One Goddess, who Lifted Us to All Glory is, in reality (a crucial phrase), a bleak form of truth.

You can reckon that somehow you singularly will move beyond the truth, that you singularly will become a divine-saviour figure of your own, either by hunger, either by trickery, or either by obscurely righteous bright light. Understand though that any pretension to some form of distinction or iconoclasm is a ritual form of self-annhilation. It's pathetic, laughable, and easy to conflate paralysis with some grand, simmering scheme that will die when you do, which is a synonym for prematurely, feebly, and to the right person amusingly.

There's an impurity in accepting just a part of the whole, or the incomplete variety of veneration... it's a grotesque form of intolerable ignorance. When you dedicate your being, wrap your beliefs around being Separated From The Whole, capitalised, the only meaningful result is that you become proof of the whole's necessity. There's a reason most of us are hidden, unglorified, and obscure, and it isn't that our ideas are some kind of great danger or pose any meaningful threat of performing alterations to the Truth. Can you make something imperial from the outcast? From the cutpurse and poisoner, and the one who demands some form of theatric conquering? Or more likely it will be something like a depressive macrocosm of What's Been Done, where the Truth we held so pitifully in our broken fingers devolves into manifold bits of broken glass, and then like all living beings we become what we are capable of possessing and die a little faster.

Though it might be arguable that this is really preferable to what happens now. I think it's rather depressing to contemplate any idea that something which really doesn't exist has elicited so much castrated, aimless rage put alongside so many grand delusions about something that, in the end, only led to the same Truth one so often rails against. What I suggest here is that anyone who performs his desired reconstructions through only the destruction of what already exists ceases to be an architect, and instead becomes a figure of fun as a low form of subterranean satyr.

And in that we are all beautiful martyrs, who are saved through a truth which has four edges and four other sharp points, and to whom we owe the blood in our veins, the rhythm of our hearts, and the flesh of our body. Anything else is sacrilege, and anti-sacrilege is the only form of tradition our current status allows us to retain.

174, Y.L.