It seems presumptuous to assume there is a path ahead. Are our visions of such a path just another mustached dream? Do we become the fools? Daily, I look at the photos and fear grows in my heart. Will the dream come for me? Is there a dream that searches for me? Will I feel its beacon? Will I hear its call? It’s a terrible thing to fear ones dreams. These photos frighten me. Everyday, I am drawn to them. I return helpless. There is nothing else I can do. I live in fear. There is nothing else I can do.
Time drags me in its journey. I am helpless. It traversed a journey of endless days; it mocks my attempts to count. My measurements laugh at me. In moments of horror, I sense this journey never ends, but we all seek a destination. Eternity is our enemy, it is our greatest illusion. The photos laugh at our delusions.
Who are the ones so easily beguiled? Do I know them? Am I one? How could we be so charmed? Do I gaze at the photos and politely say, “Oh, yes. These things happen?” Perhaps I then shrug my shoulders. Please, give me an answer. I must have a destination, and I must have an answer. I fear there is no way forward, and if we should find a way, there is no destination.
Who were the children who learned to hate? Did they pass on their hate like a soul eating virus? Who were the teachers who learned to teach this hate? Who were the teachers who taught in fear? How could they look the other way? How did they sleep at night? These questions alone rob me of my rest, how much more the deeds?
Who has looked and seen? Who has the eyes to comprehend? No, these photos lie beyond comprehension. This photography lies beyond art. Is there an art show that could abide such compositions? Were the photographers artists or demons? Should not we be asking some God, any God, for mercy? Is it I who should be asking? It’s true, when I think of these photos I no longer want to live. It’s true, I no longer know myself. I feel deeply at risk. I become unanchored unanswered. These feelings lie beyond any I have ever felt. I don’t recognize them, and I no longer know myself. Into what am I descending?
When I began this enquiry, a question is an enquiry, I asked, “How could they?” As all questions do, it has turned on me. Have I become the perpetrator? Do I wear the mustache now? These questions have betrayed me. I begin to not recognize myself. My own mind betrays me. I feel I am slipping into a pit. I no longer trust myself. Yet, I still live. How can I go on with this? I sense it lies far beyond madness. I pray it is only madness!
These questions have begun to point a finger. I begin to fear this almighty finger. My own death has become a pointing finger. I desire my own destruction, but how does an entire nation desire its destruction. How does a nation become mad? How does the mustache speak so persuasively? Where does this lethal cancer hide?
A terrible possibility begins to grow in my mind! Is it I who wears the mustache? I pray this is the final question, but I sense there isn’t one. What have I done to be tormented by such thoughts? How do these thoughts arise? I feel I am no longer the author of myself. Am I merely a kernel of popcorn that doesn’t pop?
These photos destroy me. I sense they are family photos. They lie in wait on any coffee table. A mustached man said this is the history that can never be written. Even as he spoke the photographers worked, they saw, they recorded. What kind of record did they leave? I feel their finger points at me.
The little man with a mustache shatters our beliefs. They lie about us as broken toys on the nursery floor. The nursery fills with tears. How can we go on? Where has gone the innocence of children? Does it lie on the nursery floor with the toys? Did it ever exist? The photos want to know? But who can answer that question? Are there any answers?
Long before there is a question there is an answer in our hearts. The questions come to close the door. Shall we seek an answer? Who has the courage to open that door? You undress yourself too easily. There have been stories told for thousands of years that told us things we didn’t know.
Shall we talk of questions, and shall we talk of blood? What caused blood to become a question? Oh! Was it a thousand years of bleeding? What is it about a number that it would define us? Our mortality lends itself to counting, but how do we count our eternity?
The questions won’t stop. They give me no sleep. I would write a story, but the story cannot bear the weight of the plot. I can find no sleep. What is sleep but unconsciousness? In sleep we escape our knowledge, if but for a few hours. But this consciousness never subsides. The photos brought a consciousness that grants no escape. A consciousness that never subsides.
What is this eternal consciousness? What is this eternal consciousness that measures my life like a metronome? This consciousness exceeds knowledge. This consciousness crushes my questions. They are turned against me. It is like a black fog no sleep can penetrate. I look at the photos then quickly turn away my gaze. How can they be? Is this the photo shop production of a demon? Tell me this is but an evil dream. How can I go on? What kind of soulless camera could record these deeds?
Without an explanation, how can another child be born?