The Crux
“From a string we hang, the energy came to us from The All Unknowing Glass, and there is no God,” I remember that asshole Exon Motsuuple say arrogantly when we were young. As a child, the story of the Glass World seemed lyrical and alive, but now thirty five years later it seems like a load of shit. Exon says it is true, but of course he never has any facts, and as usual his emotions seem to be made of plastic when discussing the topic. The Glass World was the “great” story about where humans didn’t come from and about the non-existent entities that didn’t create them−a world of glass that existed but didn’t: A world of glass, made from logic and reason. In other words, everybody knew everything.
My name is Jesus and I’m forty three now, and fifteen years ago a rumor started to circulate throughout the city that The All Unknowing Glass was to expand its original shape, maybe. Exon had the date at December 21st, 2012, yet he based that date on the teachings of an ancient society that was inconceivably far removed from this one. I had the date of: it’s always and already happening. My mental torments weren’t because of the “return” of Mr. Invisible (my name for The All Unknowing Glass,) but of who or what created it, so on and so forth. This would indicate that I half believed the story, I suppose. You see, I neither believe nor disbelieve. This is my problem now. And also that nothing seems real anymore, like I’m in a bubble with this life mirrored onto its spherical walls, and for the past few years I’ve been silently repeating over and over these words: there is this fog which hangs over and around us, keeps us from seeing or feeling, and the intensity of nothingness and of total logic has us imprisoned in a cell which without the wisdom of ONE, we cannot see. I don’t know why I say these words, but the effect of them upon me is making me more and more intolerable to Exon it seems. For instance, when he speaks to me it seems that he has this condescending tone in his voice, as if he hates me, and I suspect he is secretly laughing at me and the words I speak.
Also, I’ve been noticing something lately that looks like a giant bronze chain hanging straight down and high above me barely visible in the sky, and an enormous eyeball that moves from place to place around it. It’s everywhere I go and I’m perplexed by its height and complexity. I can tell that it’s high because the upper part of it fades off into and out of my line of sight when I’m looking up at it. Sometimes it’s as if it’s moving slowly and slightly tilting from one side to the other, which gives me a feeling of vertigo, and sometimes it’s as if I’m tilting back and forth and not the chain. Exon thinks I’m crazy. Another thing, my screaming from the middle of sleep is getting intolerable to me. I sometimes wake up covered in spit with a shortness of breath and feel as if someone’s watching me, even though the lights are out and the blinds are shut. My Shaman friend Frank says that’s alright, and that everything we see is always looking back at us curiously from our sleep and that everything is true and alright. I’m not sure what to make of that, because that wouldn’t make any sense. If everything was true, then there wouldn’t be anything that was false . . . and that couldn’t possibly be true, could it? And what is a thought anyway? Is it just a function to allow our brain a way of actually experiencing itself before it dies? Or is it a tool used by an esoteric creator to slowly destroy us via the machines we create with them?
So anyway, as I bite down on the barrel of this .22 caliber pistol, I seem to remember something important that up until now has only been a great source of pain in my mind. That what we think isn’t always true and everything we see and touch is only slightly true and partially false; and that we have the power to decide−and thoughts don’t exist until we turn them into truths worthy of exploration, while cross referencing them from one person to another, like a river, through the act of seeing, hearing and feeling.
Frank was wrong. . . Right?
Why does that eye keep looking at me? Exon . . .?
Click.
