Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

hell of a whammyburger”? Suddenly he saw, with absolute clarity, what
he must do.
The general word around the store was that some blonde haired kid
had stabbed the waitress, and that he had been talking to himself for
some time before he had done it. One of the younger children had seen
Jesus walk through the store in a floral print skirt. At the time, she had
turned to her mother and claimed that it was “Unkie Ken,” referring to
her Uncle, who was the spitting image of Christ. The police officer told
the girl to save the story for the National Inquirer.
Frederick sat in a corner, his mouth smiling and his eyes crying. With
an almost imperceptible sigh, he began wheeling out the door, ranting all
the while.
“Long, long hours I spent, waiting for some sort of redemption from
that hell; days of walking, running even—from myself. And that which I
ran from was a mirror image of what I ran to, but polarized. I certainly
had Hope, those long days, evenings, and lives, and it was that which
kept me running. Despair, nausea, a gray toad which croaked at every
footfall. Fear and desire, one at my back, the other pulling me forward.”
“Running for a horizon of possibility. A solution outside of myself. A
savior in a transparent nightgown? How much then did I understand the
meaning of ‘salvation without must come from within?’ How much
could I appreciate a kind word from a stranger, or the sound and feel of
wind and the harsh reality of a dark, overcast day?”
“Now I watch others run to…what?—with my mouth closed and my
hands in my pockets. You look everywhere but within yourself! Even
when you are looking within yourself, you do it so that you might be
seen, inevitably, that you might be saved. Poor soul. There are no solutions
in a world of ‘maybe,’ an existence which has no opposites—has
only itself—and has no rectification in the sheer force of the scream ‘I
AM.’ The fear of that harsh reality croaks as that toad, and begins the
anti-labor, the anti-birth, of running away from this present, precious
moment. Depression is simply the child of fear—fear of living. Maybe,
too, even the Hope is but an afterbirth, a placental cord to hang on and
climb away to darkness. But—never so with Hope founded on Love. Do
you fear your own life so much that you would daily pray for the consummation
of walking death? The fear of a blissful life with an end…
does the Joy suddenly not taste quite so sweet, then?”
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