Regardless of these personal feelings, the world has moved on without me. It hasn’t stopped to consider my feelings. My despair goes unnoticed. The universe extends no consolation. Where do I go? What is the universe that it suffers these events with such indifference? The indifference stabs my heart as sharply as the acts they suffer. No therapy can touch the pain. This pathological indifference frightens me. I feel exposed without a bulwark. I close my eyes; I cannot bear the truth that looms before me.
This social world I constantly flee has taken on suspicious colors, like a fruit rotting from the inside. This social world, can it fail me? Is such a question permissible? Curiously, I’ve never trusted this confederation. Its myriad forms proliferate in incessant growth. Its monstrous forms frighten. I cannot release the feeling that here, something is wrong. In the crowd, I glance around, maintaining a posture of amiability. I fear compromising my disguise.
But my own consciousness could be lost in myself. I too easily enter my own fortress of what I call sanity where I take refuge from the crowd. Almost too late, I discover extensive caverns beneath this fortress. They lie in darkness knowing nothing of the light. I begin to recognize that these caves run deeply. I recognize the chilling air that runs through them. I bump into rocky structures with razor edges. They slice into my flesh like a guillotine’s blade. The darkness hangs thickly in this space beneath. My movement inflicts bone piercing pain.
The pleasant people mingle overhead. Sunday strollers mingle in the warming sunshine. The inexhaustible string of Monday workers crawl through their exhausting lives. Where do they go? Do they know? Dare I fall in line? Dare I leave my fortress? Dare I risk compromising my disguise? The communal noise above permeates my shelter here below. Incessant. Its monotonous tones send their exhausting vibrations through the interstices of my soul. The demonic frequencies dissolve the cells of my spirit. My knowledge falters. Its steel supports bend. I am frozen in fear. What courage do I have to acknowledge? What can safely be acknowledged? Am I the fool here? Do I fill my mind with illusions? I have been duly warned of such.
I have been warned of the crowd. I know its thirst to crucify. I should not be surprised. But the crowd brings gifts. The crowd brings its truth; should I make it mine? Shall I accept its benediction? Shall I give it my soul? Without fear, without hesitation? Dare I pray? “Oh crowd who art in heaven hallowed be thy name.”
Can I walk alone without compromise? Can I stand among the throngs? A large densely packed crowd of people or animals. Without answers I must decide. I must pay the price. The crowd moves and I’m caught in indecision. On, happy flow of life!! I am moved along by the force of the crowd. I try, but resistance fails me. I am pulled inexorably, I surrender. I am an old man. The songs of the crowd begin to soothe. My body begins to relax in their comfort. My soul shudders. I feel that there is something wrong here, but I am an old man. Perhaps I should know, but knowledge begins to fail me. I am an old man.
Does the Truth recognize my weakness? Will the Truth take exception? The deeds I try to understand lie before me. They taunt my attempts to understand. Do they laugh? They exhaust my humor. My ears fill with laughter from the gods of ancient days. The one true and living god laughs the loudest.
The crowd engulfs me in its suffocating embrace. It is a beguiling embrace. The embrace of a lover. Its smile speaks softly of a compromised heart. But I follow in apprehension. I follow in fear. I do not see the anger that lies beneath the love, hidden. Beneath the fear, I do not recognize the hate.
I look at the pictures that freeze my souls. I did not do these acts. I did not do these acts? Is it a lie I tell myself? I am an old man; I am a desperate man. I do not have time for jokes and charades. I am finished with those. I am an old man; I am a desperate man. My beard grows grey and wild. My hair recedes. Pain radiates from my joints. The thoughts in my mind flicker into darkness.
But these pictures, the size of holiday photos, dig their bony fingers into my soul. They are of a size to fit into my wallet, behind those of the family picnic. They refuse to sit at the back of the bus. They force their way to the front. Has there ever been an artist who could paint such pictures? Is there anyone who can concoct such compositions? Such pictures cannot be fabricated. Such pictures are beyond the reach of art. Then with what do we apprehend them? With what do we distill their meaning?
What is this fear I feel? What is this horror? Are they an icon to be kissed by the faithful? They refuse to be assembled in an album of yesterday’s memories. These photos were taken to remember? But we linger in our world through generations and what have we remembered? Have we remembered the sanctity of human life? Have we remembered the barbarity behind our cultured smile? Have we simply closed the album and forgotten? Does it gather dust on our coffee table? Have we forgotten? Do we still possess a soul that can respond? Have we forgotten like old men?
When by accident we see such pictures, should we speak of them? What sacred vocabulary would reflect their import? Is our spiritual depth deep enough? What conversation will not break under the meaning these photos carry? What saint now lives holy enough to speak on their behalf? Is this why we remain silent? Is this why we obsessively talk of other things? Having seen these photos how can one speak of anything else? How can one be a saint having seen these photos? How can anyone believe?