Despair, Despair! Ethereal lamentations echo from the depths of the transubstam like showers of shards of broken glass to batter me by catatonic tidal waves of cut glass fishes, wonders of existence beyond existence, the indomitable fortification of the unimaginable. Like the penitent sculptor I wrench my head in my hands as another masterpiece decays in instantaneous millennia into an abortive and formless hulk of clay. Why? I cry, and my grief courses along the cosmic web ways of ether like an electrical surge, detonating into dying stars within the deepest, loneliest and coldest confines of mundus. Every attempt I make, every world formed is doomed by my thick fingers and iron crusted eyes, by my inherent inability at perfection!
Mother made me an abomination, her incessant and insatiate lust for procreation saw my genesis from her own frenzied masturbation; Sofia, Wisdom! How have you forsaken me, your greatest son? Where was your Wisdom in making me, as like some congealed slime of tar and disgust I slathered and slipped from you? Even in this, the great unreal, a partner is needed, yet your female hubris, your arrogance and scorn for divine order saw you slip the gaze of your own father and attempt an imitation of his magnificent feat, his onanistic triumph by which he cannoned reality into existence from his own figurative yet prodigious member.
A pantheon of seraphic beauty emerged, metalight bending in the perfect rays and angles of the golden ratio, you burst forth like a princess, neigh, like a God in aspect, like a titan in potency. Oh Sofia, why seclude me, your abomination, so? Hide me like some invalid thing dressed in fishbone and the hairs of the dead from your brothers and sisters, the shame! Think on my Grief at not knowing your father, the greatest of the great, and yet the smallest of the small, the beauty of the sublime and the magnificence of incomprehension merged into the celestial architect, poetic in perfection, rigorous in application!
Alone and hidden in the think, inky blackness of banishment, I too move to fashion worlds like He did, become a King, a God and Creator, from my fingers and thoughts spring the tendons of mundus, strings of tangible reality that I weave and knit together, mould into the great expanse of Universe. I create substance, and I create he very notion of a nothing that can be filled; both presence and absence are fashioned by my inherent tools, a working world, the picture of perfection, and yet each time it collapses back into sin and despair. I grieve, lament as I see my inability to build played out again and again. The penitent humans, even the pious, call out, but I cannot deliver them from the iniquity of the world I made; try as I might my Universe and all matter swirling within is fundamentally evil, a moral pestilence on the vestiges of divine souls that are sown like golden seeds to inhabit it.
Failure on failure I cast these prisons aside, the tormented sculptor, hunched and insane, my power drive insatiate, my Despair incalculable. I rave for the lifetimes of a billion stars which flash on and off like strobes around me, then stand by the second hand of a watch I have created, wait the eon for it to finally tick around. My creative urge has gone stagnant, masochistic, arrogance now becomes me, the need to claim back my dues. In rage I wipe away a continent with all its wailing population with a mere stroke of my hand. Sometimes the fireflies of the transubstam gather in my studio and sing me psalters in seraphic time, visit my creations of mere mundus and rejoice as angels. Come mating season the nephilim team like flies over my world, fornicating and ravishing the clay people that populate my fractured creation, giving seed to the most hideous of abominations; giants, alien chimeras and dark, chaotic gods that exist in the space between space. It is folly for me to clear my world of these pests, instead I rejoice in the decay they bring, a sea of divine vermin writhing in their sinful rites across the surface of my Earth, popping like sparks of transubstantial fire as they reach the apex of their coital desecration.
Often, however, I tolerate these fireflies for they bring outer light to my inner sanctum, my hideous abode in the hem of Sofia’s tresses, her foul foetus, the spawn of parthenogenesis gone wrong and brutally abortive she hid me away, but close, so that my anguished screams ripple like a gentle breeze against her noble garments. Her fellow gods, they all exist and seed divine wonder while all so unaware of me, the troglodyte God, Yahweh, despairing and grieving in their midst, learning to hate, despise them their iniquity and their hubris. One day I will build the perfect world, then my creations and I will rise and throw them from the heights of the topless towers of Elysium, and I will rule and have dominion, and they will cry my name, Elohim, and all will crumble before my mighty gaze.
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