| 30 апреля 2010 |
| 11:00 - Я кончил просто
|
In the shadows, the demons gather. Do you hear the
buzzing of flies? The whispering of parchment pages turning?
The stink of blood drawn in great whorls and slashes
on the wall? Will you make a deal with the demon? Open
the book and find out.
You’ve come a long way.
You were never a young people. Your ancestors stretch back
into the mists, to other times of which I’m not permitted to
speak. They were stupid. They lacked ambition. Will. There
was no common ground between us. When you were born,
I thought you’d be like the rest, fucking shamelessly under
the rain, confining your violence to innocent dominance
gestures, rough and tumble.
When you picked up a rock, I smiled. When I saw her
blood on it, I cheered. Finally, someone was speaking my
language.
There were awkward introductions. You’d
never seen me before, though I was always there,
waiting until your senses developed. When they drove
you off, I followed. When you came back with fire (no
need to thank us for that) and burned them, I
praised you while they screamed and cursed. I
made a few suggestions, showed you how to
do a better job next time.
I know you felt guilty sometimes, but
I helped you get over it. We collaborated
on a few techniques to set your
will on the right path. First of all, you
learned how to set yourself apart from
weak people. Honestly, I made only a
small suggestion, but you really ran with
it. You invented words to keep them low.
Barbarian. Slave. Infidel. Slut. You made new
tools to give those words some bite. Quite a thing
to talk with a spear or cluster bomb, isn’t it?
The weak will always be your burden. I sympathize.
They’ve got numbers on their side, but I’m trying to get
them to come around to your way of thinking. Sometimes
they get the best of you, make you think you’re in the wrong.
Sometimes you even blame me for everything that’s happened.
Not so.
Think of it this way. It’s like we’ve walked along a beach together
and when you look back you see two sets of footprints in some places,
but only one set at others—when you were at your worst. You ask, “Did
you carry me through that and make me do those awful things?”
No, you miserable fucking coward. You carried me. You couldn’t take another
step without bringing me along, so you could say, “The Devil made me do it.” All
I did was talk.
It’s okay. I forgive you.
I’ll always forgive you.
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