As Vivências

Non Remittitur (A Prayer After Mercy Failed) [1]

The Halophile Regent was at last interdicted but moments ago-that salt-slicked architect of the abyssus who once arrayed her essence with the terrifying poise of a pre-lapsarian queen. She maintained a habit of traversing the pyre with a countenance of petrified apathia, as though the roaring incendium were merely a tedious ceremonial inconvenience. Such composure birthed within me a metasomatic indignation-a density of wrath so compact it approached the alchemical weight of a dying sun. I could envision, with a hierophantic clarity, the eversion of her features: the delicate geometry of her gaze drawn to its tessellated breaking point. This was no crude sadism; it was the desire to prove that cruciamentum, when administered with artisanal finesse, becomes a dialect more articulate than the most ornate mercy.

Whether she merits such a translation into agony remains a question suspended in the aether of theodicy-a metaphysical chimera. Meritum is an imprecise instrument; who among us is licensed to weigh the quiddity of a soul without a tremor of memento mori? And yet the imagination persists, whetting its scalpels of silence within the internal colonnade of the mind.

There was another-a hierophant of shadows who stood nearest to the so-called heavenly ordinances, a devotee of unauthored orisons. He approached with a histrionic pietas, falling at my feet to seal that posture with a kiss prolonged into a grotesque sycophancy. A full hour of supplication provoked in me not tenderness, but a risus sardonicus-the sound of a mirror fracturing under the weight of an intolerable veritas. I bestowed upon him what he required, though not what he desired. I named it Mors Subitanea: the Abrupt Silence-a mercy stripped of its softest silks, a seismic tremor executed without the vanity of spectacle. It was a ritual conducted far from the oculi mundi-those societal eyes that pretend to govern transgression while secretly gorging upon its visceral remains.

Why, then, must my decretum submit to their clandestine censures? Why must judgment, when exercised by my hand, be rendered an æsthetic aberrance? Their certainties are but vitreous relics-ornate, fragile, and spurious. One day I shall permit myself the small liberation of shattering them, reducing each polished assurance to a granular anonymity: sand remembering its desert origins. An awakening begins precisely there-in the tectonic thrum of a structural collapse.

Eventually, there remained nothing left to dismantle. The awaiting souls-those patient effigies of expectation-stood motionless, like statues whose beauty derives from their fixedness of despair. I longed, almost tenderly, to hear those incandescent colors pray before the Crux of Continuance. Even the Magdalene, in her hysteric sanctification, might have envied the severity of such a liturgy. They cast stones toward me as if rehearsing a martyrdom I had not yet consented to perform. How, they seemed to ask, can one be integrated into The Absolute while still bearing the fractures that define a plenary consciousness?

Perfection-that sterile apotheosis-demands an absolute consensus, a surrender of all sharpness. And yes, at certain thresholds, I found myself consenting, if only to study the archaic architecture of the altar.

Conclusions seized too swiftly often inaugurate catastrophes of exquisite depth. Yet from such errors, a new ascent of iron may be engineered. I rose through divine miscalculation, through a deliberate misreading of the Logos, and in doing so enacted a rebirth unrecorded by any benevolent gospel. One by one, the dominoes of prior certainty collapsed-not into chaos, but into a Sclerarchy of Design: a sovereign infection threading through the very marrow of Being.