While watering near the Greenleaf’s front gate I came to hear a man shouting A familiar man to most of us though often our familiarity with him is limited It was the Masked Rebel the everyman against the heavyman on top The man passionate for resistance The beaver building a dam while chanting a curse on the water’s flow As I said, he was shouting as if to a crowd but it was only me there and passing cars He said (shouted) You worship numbers and shirk wonders They cannot be your truth they were not in your youth They cannot be your god(s) they are flawed No? Perfect, you say? Perfect and the only thing so? Perhaps, but they decay the moment your mind touches them clutches them They are a layer that rests upon truth upon reality But it is a holey foil that simply takes the shape of fact and feigns veracity You see, they blind you with sight They say, “Look over here!” and you do and you see something seemingly useful and it probably is but in so seeing you do not see another thing and having seen you stop looking This is the tyranny of Numbers: They banish Doubt, Knowledge’s first mother and the only avenue to true truth They have you captured they have your government in chains your employer tied to the yoke that turns the Wheel and you all worship them for the darkness they dispel for the fence they put up against Nergui and her wilds but these sticks are no fortress - they’re a camp - a child’s and they hold back nothing, friend Come with me down from the Tower of Certainty Let us take to the path once more There is another door
Discussion about this post
No posts