Look at me, and my tunic with all its wormholes!
These wormholes to posterity; where I witness
my birth and death and resurrection; in a timescale
of a moment. So that I know my own defeat, as a purpose!
That this knowledge like drops of vinegar on my
thorn-crowned soul mitigate its suffering. And be called
an aloe. You know the labyrinth survives everyone who tries to
overcome it; but their bravery sees it fall figuratively
to the ground of its own tortuous treachery. I am alive and cavalier in my
impromptu death, that it is not an accident of fate; but of an external incorrigible connivance
that responds to the desperation of its own survival and triumph every time it is
walled to its back! When you can discern who is stigmatised,
and who actually deserves the stigmata? We are bound by books that
tell us a different tale. The real martyr is your witch consigned to the
burning stake. Would you care to think there is a fool in every braveheart
enduring the witch-hunt of the truth? Like the fool I’ve always been,
prostrating myself to defeat, but never to the treachery. If you
understand the oblivion of the true saviours who are so kindhearted
that they step into the backdrop, so the world survives, through every victory of the villainous!
So, there is no untimeliness in the timeliness of the Fool’s Paradise
in the celebration of his beleaguered life and palpable defeat, but invisible victory!
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