Purpose (fiction)
Ξ April 13th, 2008 | → | ∇ Philosophy, Writing |
I am blessed.
I know why I am here. It is a disctinction not many people have. Were you made for a reason? Do you know your purpose?
I was made to hurt.
I’ve known this for a long time, but I have never had words for it. In truth, I still don’t. These statements are simple truths that can not capture the reality of it.
My purpose, is pain.
Knowing why you exist is freedom at its finest. It gives you sanctity, and peace of mind. For me, there can be nothing else.
I have such a capacity for suffering, that it would be foolish not to exercise it. Is a dancer born who does not need to dance? And if the dance is denied, can a dancer be fulfilled?
Must not an artist create or die?
Who can call himself a man who does not lust after a woman. And being denied, does he consider himself a man? Nay, his shame is great enough to hide his face.
All things, all people, have a nature. It is to that nature they are born, and there is no escape from that. Do you know your purpose? Truly?
Can you say, as I can say, that you are fulfilling your destiny every moment of your day? If you can not, then you are a slave to yourself, and a poor servant of the highest. And has not our highest said that no servant may judge another?
We are alike you and I, in that we are meant to serve the highest. Each of us. But in no other way can I be compared to you. If you would like to know the truth, my suffering is ecstasy even as it is torment. The highest has said that there is nothing beyond this world. There is only escape from it and return to it. I shall return again, always to fulfill my purpose in ecstasy. Can you say the same?
(From the writings of a nameless fetish. Servant of Jean-Toma Richeu. 230th quadre of the third prophet)
((more to come… perhaps))
