Who is this little man who brings us a thousand years? What is a thousand years when others have brought an eternity? A thousand years to hate. A thousand years to be glorified in hate. How did we sell so short? Can one hate for an eternity? Can hate sustain us? Or does hate exhaust itself in a few years?
As the events of days pile into an eternity, will the mustache fade? Will the deeds of these photos be carried on by something that does not pass? Has the world changed or is it us? No! History has no soul! History is no thing of the universe. It is a story, a fiction. This fiction cannot answer our questions. The universe does not answer questions. Questions build their houses in our minds. They build houses with many rooms to provide a place for their off-springs to hide. In the closets in those rooms we find places to hide ourselves. Language is a lie; it is no place where truth lives.
Is a question such a thing that it can save us? We must interrogate something and that requires a question. We can start by wondering why we ask questions. Doesn’t even the act feel suspicious? Does this thing merely guide our attention? Can my attention not find its own way? Does it need words?
From where do these words come and to where do thy lead? We do not ask yet about their answer. We do not know if they require words. How does something made of words know something that isn’t? Can the eyes carry more truth than the ears? Can words penetrate the truth of these photos? I search for words and return with only silence. The photos live alone outside the realm of words.
When I look, and I can’t look for long, I don’t see hate. I see something much more monstrous. Emotions can’t carry the load of this other thing. These photos don’t present or represent, they reveal. Their revelation is the other thing. I am destroyed by their revelation. I would voice my anguish, but I am silenced by their reality.
These are the photos that rest well in a photo book on my coffee table. These are the photos we live with without trepidation. These are the photos that carry us gently into yesterday. These things don’t bear too heavy a burden for my ears.
But the others, they terrify me. You know the photos of which I speak, there are none other like them. Can they be mentioned in conversation? What would be the occasion that could withstand such a conversation? Who could bear such stories that would be told? Can conversation handle such truth?
The camera captures the reality before it. The camera captures unknowingly. It does not participate in what it sees. It carries no knowledge. It’s not a thing that knows but a thing that reveals. How can this be so except it is made by humans? Is it not only humans that reveal? Who would need a revelation but a human being? History show their value? When we seek revelations, what exactly do we seek? Do we even know what we expect to find? Do we even know enough to say, “No, that is not what I seek?” Will we know when to stop looking? Do we know the difference between looking and seeking”
I watch my cat explore her environment. I don’t know if she is seeking or looking. She seems to have a pattern of exploration. She seems to have some decision-making process. But I don’t know what’s in her mind or if she has one. Must I say the same about myself?
I remember the photos; I no longer can bear to look at them. It is all my sanity can manage to know they exist. I would be happy if they resided only in my memory. I could think of other things and not remember. My fate is to know they exist. This knowledge feels much larger than myself. This knowledge has become part of me. Can such knowledge be absolved? Can such things done be undone? Is life this absolute that the answer is no? This is the way of the universe, but only human beings hear the ultimatum.
How can an entire nation be so wrong? Who was the man who birthed this mistake? Surely it was a man. Women don’t have such dreams. This ghastly mistake took a man to make. The world would have been blessed had this monster been stillborn, this dream. Where shall we go from here? How can we go on?
These photos are pictures of a naked dream, a dream exposed. The universe stands in truth. For this reason, this dream stands exposed. But what of the dreamer? What does the dreamer see? Does the dreamer see its truth or is the dreamer cursed to forever dream? Did they not see the horror? Many years stand between us and the dream of these photos. We feel safe behind this steel wall. But are we caught in a delusion, another dream? Did the dream seep through the steel wall? Have we too been betrayed by the little mustached man?
I’m frightened to think of those betrayed. How could so many fall asleep, and how could so many have slumbered? Do we fear, or do we sleep? Have we also chosen to slumber? How did this great sleep fall upon so many? How were they called? Can the call of the mustached man still be heard? Does the mustache still beckon? I fear there is nowhere to hide. I fear there are no escapes.
Yes, how could so many have slumbered? I fear I seek an answer in vain. It’s too late to talk of answers. It’s too late to speak of solutions. Only these photos can speak. Do we have the courage to listen? No, it is too late; it is too late.