I cannot tell the future,
whether it is all wishful thinking things will turn out. I fear I have been
played false by hope, or my denial. It is impossible to tell which. What glass
do I look in to see clearly? What glass changes the shape of my malformed eye?
Those of reputation make a stab at answers with only a dim understanding of the
needed questions. I have done my poor best with the scant faculties available
given the flawed creaturlyness of the human condition. It is a hard answer
utter dependence is inherent in the design along with the proclivity toward
pride. I want to know what I cannot. I want to not be left dangling until the
end times. I envy those who claim not to doubt, thou I suspect them of
dishonesty. The tension between the now and the not yet lashes me to the rack.
The ratchet on the turnbuckle clicks with age, pulls suppositions apart to
probe the marrow, exposing secrets I’ve long kept. There is no more room for
illusion yet I am infinitely capable of producing another mask.
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