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Does it Confuse You?
By Regis Auffray   

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A dialogue by Sha'Tara, local writer and friend.

Something to ponder, maybe?
Does it Confuse You?

(Dialogue with The Inquisitor on the last day of judgment:)

Why do you claim not to be that which you are?

What I do not claim is what I am, obviously
no need to claim what you readily see. In your world
seeing is believing and (never mind your faith)
what you see, that is your truth. As it should be.
But that is only your truth. It does not have to be mine
and it cannot be: you are not convincing enough.

My truth, that's something else: I claim, as you will say
that I am someone else, but that you cannot see
and it enrages you because you want the physical
me – to be tempted by, to brutalize, to condemn- (I
have been in your dungeons many times before)-
Now then, what you cannot see, that is my lie. (We
representing the balance of opposites.)

I ask you then, of what good is your faith
if it will not show you that which you cannot see?
I ask you, of what good are your eyes
if all they let you see is the obvious?
How then are you different from anyone else?

(Inquisitor:) you will not question my faith
with impunity, spawn of Hell's legions, and
as for my eyes they save me from confusion,
the confusion you sow so glibly with lying words.
Have a care: I have the power to put you to the test.

So? And you trust your eyes rather than my words,
is that it? What other senses then
will you trust to deny my words?
(Inquisitor:) all of my senses, all of them,
they are true. You are the liar. The pretender.

True to you, yes, but is that all of your truth, then?

(Inquisitor:) yes, that is my truth, that which keeps me
sane and beyond the reach of your madness.
My madness, is it? My madness?
Was it my madness you imprisoned
in your dungeons of dead ritual and arbitrary judgment?
It was your fear drove you, your mindless hate
your very own sad madness.
Remember the words, they were written
but yesterday, but a moment ago yet
carved upon stone in ages long past and to be:
In the beginning was the Word.
The Word was with God.
The Word was God.

You know the Scripture, you are the priest:
the Word became flesh and dwelt with us
to remind us, as always. Just to remind us.
And now, however you twist it, it is reminding you!
Its finger points directly into your black soul.
Remember then, for those who truly believe
fear is anathema. We are beyond your judgments.

(Inquisitor:) but not beyond my power--my power
to put you to the test: You will be burned tomorrow.
You will feel the pain of Hell in your mortal flesh.

Your hell, my friend. Your little, so short-lived mortal hell
of man-made fire from wood or coal and choking smoke
and I will say to you from the pyre though you will not hear:
Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you;
bless those who curse you.
If anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back.

Freely I give you my life. Take it. You will not be held
in debt for that taking. It will not be demanded back.

(Inquisitor) walks heavily away to climb the long stairs,
step by very long stone step to the top of weathered battlements.
Hopeless, in despair, he throws himself off to shatter
his illusions upon the rock from whence came the walls
of dungeons deep where he had sought to expiate
in the blood of sacrificial victims his crimes, his sins.
No longer could he silence the screams within;
no longer could he ignore the cold steel peg
impalling his still too-human heart.

So it must be; so it will always be. And so, tell me
you who would teach history: who are the mad?



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