Misinformation washes over the land, a spreading contagion.
I posted on some Tibet article recently that education would win out in the end; truth would prevail. It was a faith-based statement. What my eyes see is that this world is getting wronger and wronger. The truth reaches some, but their percentage is dwindling every day…
Here we are, civilizing ourselves right into barbaric insanity…
The farther down into the cave we see mankind descend, the weaker becomes their memory that there ever was such a thing as sunlight. When people have no desire to learn the truth, what chance do they have?
This world of men is dying. I want to cut myself off from it and drift free, as it capsizes… I think I can do it. Are they even still men? They’re an innumerable herd of swine, all tumbling madly over the cliff, and I have to escape their stampede.
Why do people hate truth? Isn’t truth beautiful? Why are they so happy to remain in error? Why choose blindness?
All we can stupidly imagine is the tiny bubble of our own vision…
Truth is difficult to learn… because… …of doubts, and fears. Doubts are an addiction one must overcome. We’re all drunken. We’re led astray even from childhood. This is so unjust. Why must these billions suffer such dishonour because of the first of their self-loathing parents?
Our silly little solutions are as limited as our awareness of our problems.
Well, I’m not with them. I know I can change my wrongness. I’m the only one I can change… That shrinking percentage — the fraction of that percentage — they will cross the barrier, and so may I, if God helps me, and if I abstain from that inebriety.
Oh, apostates… Why do they do it? They’re our only weakness; they’re the world’s greatest enemy. Forget the infidel — if not for apostates, we could save this world bit by bit. But they, gazing down into the awesome chasm of truth, fearful, craving the security of cowardice, allow their minds the inspiration that the truth has failed them, so they turn back and obscure the truth to others, damning so many along with themselves. Those apostates… the truth has been their faithful lover, whom they have betrayed. Their hearts will tear them very gruesomely in the eternities; they will suffer as few others. But bless the one who is careful to damn only himself… or herself.
And we faithful, our hearts will tear us, too, though not so much, for all our tiny mistakes that inflated into terrible frustrations in the minds of the unenlightened. We have coughed, and not covered our mouths; we have touched things with tainted hands; and then our colds have healed, while the weak around us also contracted our disease, but could not heal; they have died from our mistakes.
This suffering world… It burns with the fever of infection; but these sheep try to cool the fever even as they multiply the virus.
It’s not cars, those fools. It’s sin. Our planet is dying from what we call our "rights". As the doctor restricts the sick patient to his bed, so we must restrict our freedom if we want to cure ourselves.
…But what my eyes see is a worsening sickness, not a curing one. We’ll all die.
In this awful state, even the tiniest gleam of light is a relief. Bless those Christians. Bless those stubborn Muslims. Bless those atheists who yet proclaim man’s divinity, who teach men to learn and question everything. Follow any of these paths to their absolute, and they’ll lead to truth. A muddy, sticky trail up a narrow canyon pass — most of those believers get bogged down halfway in their beliefs, and pull down their neighbours with their flailing, and never make it out; but if they keep walking forward, they’ll find the same God who revealed himself to Moses and to Joseph Smith. Let them look honestly, and see if their beliefs don’t, in the end, point them to this gateway, this straight path with this iron bar for a handhold.
That iron bar… It brings you to your knees to consider the mercy of it.
…So this isn’t unjust — less so every day. The contagion spreads, but with it, the cure. God has already lifted us up this brass snake on a pole, which to look upon will heal our sickness. Only, may the pole lift ever higher, and may our warning voice cry to the far reaches of this stricken band of mankind; and let the angels take care of the dead.
Then, here is my voice:
Start here, at the beginning. This is the iron bar. This is the life line to our sinking ship. This is the starlight piercing the choking poison fog around us, all too breatheable to some. This is the trumpet of retreat from our battlefield — lay down the tools of rebellion, of wrathful doubt, of fierce opinion.
Let that futile war will go on without us, whose victims slaughter themselves, and will not be mourned by us.