Le Grande Étoile

In fearing the need of me, she often raises up Montségur battlements of fey seclusion, all studded with frosted glass through which she can gaze at me, whilst allowing her mind to reconstruct the blurred image into the archetype more familiar and comforting to her. She knows who I am, but cannot bear to part with the mythological ideal. This mythology which trades on my soul and bears down on me like some weighty and burdensome child aloft my shoulders, crippling my back and bending me double. She has always studied the representation of mine eyes, but the truth of them in flesh, and the depth of my love for her which reveals itself within them, is unnerving to her. As a child she dreamt of this and prayed for its manifestation, yet still she hesitates. And this is the way for most everyone these days. Mine eyes demolish these Jericho battlements which guard their souls. These countless folk who yearn for the reckoning but fear the judgement, as if all the sins of mankind will be laid whole upon each and every one of them. Like some city of lost children they seek the shadow and not the substance.

© Chris Bond — 29 April 2003

The tricky and frustrating situation any messiah has when confronted with having to interact with those who wholeheartedly believe in the mythologised character rather than the true essence of the being in question. Religion's greatest asset is its ability to obfuscate the truth and thereby devolve power unto those who control its message.