Can one
man change the world merely by existing? I certainly think it not possible.
Thousands, millions even – maybe more. How can one hand touch all of those? How
can a man make his ideas survive the test of time when fate seems to determine
that change must occur, and the changes are always led by those who desire to
control? I don’t know if I can do anything, yet I feel I have to. After all,
who else can counter the powers that otherwise enslave men? Man does not need
to live by rule, man can rule himself. He merely needs guidance. I want to be
the guide, but why does no one help me? Why are my ideas so difficult to get
across? Who will listen?
Where
did it all start? Was it when I was born? My birth was, to me, the most
unremarkable thing to have occurred in my life. That is how well infanthood
swaddles those early tribulations in joy and awe, instead of worrying about the
times you were crying as a babe you see, in your new found consciousness a
world of wonder. Some say my birth was
special, but they say that about all children, don’t they? Father, if there is
anything special in me I beg you take it back.
They
say all sorts of things to me, those followers of mine, they think I’m special.
It hurts to be looked up to. Am I not flesh? Am I not blood? I am both of these
things therefore I am as lowly as they are. I am no hope, I am no salvation. I
am just a man. So why then do they admire me so? Why do they see me as
different? Some look up to me, and yet for the same reasons others hate me. Who
is correct? I can’t help but side with those who hate me, knowing I’m just a
man, believing I’m nothing special, I must have done something wrong for others
to think otherwise.
I spoke
to my friends. They sleep now, but I cannot. They say I am betrayed. It is not
just my former friends who have betrayed me though, is it? They tell me I am
special, that I am chosen. I am neither, I am cursed. I have been suckled on a chalice
of poison. Will you take this cup from me?
Betrayed?
They say I am to die. What is it to die? I’m not sure I want to. Father, I
fear. I’m scared, father. My heart races, it seems as though the fear itself
could kill me. I sweat blood at the thought, to never see another sight, tell
another tale, make another smile and laugh, nurse the injured and ill, to never
have influence, to never have senses, to never dwell in this mortal realm again
– I am afraid. Some say this was foretold all along, father that cannot be
true, can it? Why should I be born only to suffer, to die?
They
say I am a prophet, a messiah. That my coming was foretold, my doings
preplanned, my life presupposed from the very beginning. Would a father create
a child only to kill him? What monster acts in creation? And what merit is
there, if good is preordained, in the actions of a man who acts not of his own
will, but merely of fate? They tell me I am good, but how can I be? Surely I
only did as was planned, not as I decided. Perhaps the devil in Eden was right
about the knowledge of good and evil. The evil person who performs one good act
out of choice does more good than a person who does good because it was etched
in destiny, and he can do nothing else.
Life,
well to me life is like a mountain. We are born on one side, and on the other
we must die. Some, taking the easy way, they take a guide and they hike up the
side. They struggle and they huff and they heave and they get sick and they get
maimed, and many fall along the way. They are led by others into a deliberate
struggle because they are taught that’s what they should do and how they should
do it. They shout that the way is not fair, but that’s just the nature of it.
They say there is no changing it. I, meanwhile, disagree. I wish to stay at the
base, and pick and claw and dig at the rock until I find my own way to the
other side. It’s harder, sure. It takes a hell of a lot of effort. But it’s my
effort, it’s my choice. And I create a path easier for everyone else to
traverse. They no longer need a guide, for the way is clear, and it is fairer
for all if all traverse it fairly. Can I
dig that tunnel? People seem to expect me to.
Expectation,
it’s a horrible thing. Each man must drink of his own cup, but there are plenty
of men happy to tell you their wine is better and you should drink it how they
do. Eventually some of these people are listened to. Then suddenly everyone
says you must drink the wine as they do. My cup is made for me, and my wine may
not be as sweet, but it is savour to me, at least so long as it has not been
poured by the hand of cruel fate, but kisses my lips by my own decision.
What is
a decision anyway? How are our choices made? Are they shaped by current
consciousness, by in-the-moment thoughts? Or are they simply a product of all
else we have seen and done? In that case are they even free choices anyway?
Father I have so many questions, must you take me so soon? Must you ensure they
remain unanswered?
Since
my incarnation I have thought of nothing but the cruelty of it all, the cruelty
of life, how cruel it is to have the living die. Father, why? What is life?
What are these amalgamations of activity we call living beings? From what stuff
are they made? Where from? If your hands are so powerful as to create them all,
and you fashion them with infinite souls why must their life be finite? Some
say life is a test and that you wish to judge people. But you make people. Your
hands lead to their creation; your hands lead them in their lives, so their
failures are yours. Are you so scared of your own failure that you’d curse the
innocent before accepting fault? Would you forsake your own creations as, right
now, my brothers forsake me?
I come
to believe, father, that you are not our salvation, but are the opposite. I
come to find that those rules you have imposed are barbaric, that the order you
create is simply selfish power. You allow the dogs to bite at your flock – and
then you send me, they say, to die for them. How foolish.
I know you can make me no promises
about how things would be if I choose this supposed fate. You have made man in
your image and, in so far as that is true, they are doomed. But I wish to at
least give them a little boost of the breath of life in their lungs, so that
they may have a chance at the peace and prosperity I desire for them. There are
fools in their ranks, there are bigots and thieves and women of ill reputation,
there are beggars and criminals, bankers, liars and murderers, all of them
deserve better. There’s none born to steal, none born to kill. They become that
way. Your world, the world they were given by their Lord and creator, it is
that which drives them to greed, adultery and murder. Their indiscretions need
no forgiving, you standing idly by does.
Father,
I will go. When the soldiers come, I will go - but not for you. I go for them.
For you have cursed them, you have played them for fools. When Eve bit of the
apple in Eden you cast her and Adam from the garden not because they had done
wrong, but because they then possessed sufficient knowledge to know you had
done wrong. You cast them out because they saw through your faults. They saw that
you are as faulted as they, jealous and angry, vainglorious and petty, selfish
and greedy. I will die, father, and in my death forgiveness must come. But it
is not they who need forgiving, it is you.
I hear
footsteps. The time has come.
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