The treacherous weed, sending its ungodly roots deep into the richly succulent soil in which it grows, seizes hold of its existence in this way, managing in its desperation to establish a foothold and penetrate deep into all things, and put its indelible mark on them. It then becomes impossible ever to uproot, and it thus becomes incumbent upon us to no longer look upon it as the malignant interloper that it is, but see it instead as an object of worship and praise it loudly every day. It becomes necessary to worship the treacherous malevolent weed, in other words, and afford it every conceivable benefit. The ranks of the pious are now assembled, as you can see, and the sounds of their joyful but corrupt worship rises into the sky like sinister smoke, sending out an ominous warning to all the living creatures of this world…
So began my magnum opus which was to run to many pages, and which would come to consume so many years of my life. I ventured out of the house only at night in those days, under cover of darkness, and would buy a few nondescript items in the local corner ship shop. I gave no heed to what I bought for my thoughts were elsewhere. My thoughts were always elsewhere. Late at night when I needed some relief from the incessant toil of writing I would smoke a joint of dried datura leaves, sometimes throwing in a few crushed seeds for extra piquancy. The seeds are the thing of course, there is only very little potency to be had out of the leaves. My memory suffered as a result of this vice. When the long-term use of datura has become the norm then memory is the first thing to go, in my experience. Most folk fear and dread the datura plant, needless to say, but I found its effect strangely convivial. The drug provided company for me – I would spend the long evenings chatting to gnomes, goblins, tree spirits and fairy-folk of every description. I learned a lot in these discussions – which often went on into the early hours. What exactly I learned I cannot tell you however; the datura has taken away too much of my memory to allow for any reliable recollection. The datura giveth, and the datura taketh it away.
We are all worshippers at the altar of the False God, aren’t we? That was the point that I was to make in my very long and overly-convoluted treatise – not that I ever actually came to the point, however. ‘Coming to the point’ is not my strong suite, as no doubt you have noticed. I ended up losing myself amidst the highways and byways of my ever-bifurcating thoughts and preoccupations. I never did come to the point that I was to make and that’s a pity, but the point was that we are all worshipping frenziedly at the altar of the False God, each one of us in our own particular way. To worship the True God would cost us too dearly, you see. It would cost us more than we are willing to pay.
‘Beware he who cometh close to me, for I am the fire that burns’ – Isn’t that what Jesus says in the Gospel of Thomas? Or something like that. Is it any wonder that Thomas’s name was blackened by conniving churchmen over the centuries? Is it any wonder that for 2000 years priests have been telling stories at the pulpit that mocked his name? Isn’t it obvious that there’s something behind that? When we worship the False God then he allows us to rest secure in the thought that our cherished beliefs are true, and this is why he is called Satan. And this is why. He is called Satan. I wrote that twice just for effect. Effect is everything in this game isn’t it? If you come up close to The Fire That Burns do you think it would allow you to rest safe and secure in the sanctity of your cherished nonsensical beliefs? No it wouldn’t, and that’s why it’s called ‘The Fire That Burns’. These religious fanatics are so full of themselves and their so-called ‘message’ but do you get the feeling that they like The Fire That Burns, for all their zeal? Far from it, my friends, these guys like to do the burning, not be on the other end of it. These guys think that they are The Fire That Burns! How deluded can you get?
People ask me what qualifications I have; they ask me what right I have to speak on these matters. Do I actually know anything about it? I tell them that I am a graduate of the Invisible University – disembodied spirit voices were my tutors; hallucinations were my lectures; pain and despair was the course that I enrolled upon; the souls of the dead were my fellow students. I say this by way of a formula. I say this by way of a ritual and people don’t generally stick around to ask me any further questions. They know better than to do this. They hurry along, anxious to terminate the conversation, anxious to find someone else to talk to. This suits me only too well of course – I am as happy to see them go as they are happy to leave! ‘What a curse it is to be a fool!’ I always think when I meet these people. What a terrible curse. We are no more than ghosts in this life, isn’t that true? Blown here and blown there, never really knowing what we doing or why. We are here in name only, gone before we know it.