THE PROPHET

It wasn't either hot or cold the day I, finally, came to learn that Mattheus Ibrahim, the local busker at my tube station, had written a book. It was zero degrees and, taking into account the auspicious winds that were blowing that evening, it felt like zero degrees. It wasn't without apprehension that I agreed to inspect the mysterious manuscript and, as you all know by now, that was the beginning of my demise and ulterior debasement.

Much has been said about the strange sequence of events that followed and that, eventually, would place me in the navel of public opinion and the Federation Scrutinisers.

Fellow Humans, forget it all, if, at last, some enlightenment do your intellects desire! I do not deny the human lives lost or the assassination plot, but by the time you finish reading this account, you will agree with me that the inexorable burden upon me and the waxing and waning of Fortuna (Providence you may say) did not allow any other way out - Out! What an irony! if only there had been a way out! -

We will never know who Mattheus Ibrahim really was. Or where (or what!) did he come from. His intoxicating demeanour, the filthiness in his choice of nouns and adjectives will (God have Mercy!) never be retrievable again. When  I opened Mattheus Ibrahim's manuscript, at random, and saw the unnameable dirt of these words (please, God forgive me for reproducing this distillate of abjection and putrescence!):


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


You cannot even begin to conceive how I felt as The Sacrilege became manifest! The horror, the horror of reading the exquisite Wordsworth's lines savaged, brutalised,and forever unclean in Mattheus Ibrahim's unmentionable speak, in the intolerable stench of his version. Ah, the immaculate, ah, the pure, angelic lines of Divine William:


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


Ah, merciful reader, compare if you dare, if you still count yourself amongst the living:

When Wordsworth says, impeccably,  "I wandered lonely as a cloud", the sublimity, the delicacy, of these words. Pure. White and Gold. A being of Light, a compassionate Gabriel, if you agree.

And, now, oh please, please spare my soul:

"I wandered lonely as a cloud", in the infamous, rotting, viscous tongue of the Unnameable!!!! Nauseating swamps and miasmas. The contagious lustful poison of damnation!

Can you see the decomposing detritus that obscenely licks and drips down the word "I"?!!! Decomposing and contaminating its neighbouring "wandered"?! Can you feel how all hope is gone? Do you realise now that all that rests is Death and Silence? That we must die.

As the text follows, the pervading rot grows geometrically, the uncanny plan reveals itself, the most profound degradation of anything that once could be called human, the unspeakable, tormenting and eternal realisation of the ontological despair, the unbearable immensity of the darkest slime reigning over Eternity! The last words in this verse cannot even be read, let alone pronounced. Oh, Heavens, can you even start to imagine the quality of that "breeze"? Ahhhhhhh! Please, please, oh no, no, no!

It has been long since I lost my mind and am grateful for it because the inconceivable incomprehension that such horror causes in your mind cannot be endured but by a fraction of a second, and now here I am, waiting and praying that life may be short.

And that Humankind is aborted forever.