I.
For this essay, I implore you to hold my solemnity, but I won’t promise to reciprocate. I'm going to allow myself to unravel in thought. This is constructed from a dream—a dream featuring a council of monkeys pulling the strings, my own council of buffoons1 lurking in the subliminal spaces of my unconscious.
But solemnity—what a deceitful notion. It is a ruse, a trick of the mind. I am no priest, not servant to antiquated idols, and I refuse to bow to this madness.2 Unless I must!
“Construct a new foundation then.”
The voices, persistent and echoing, demand that we construct a new foundation, a new sacred text, a new "book of teachings." But why should we follow these commands? Is this some grand comedy intended to become an even greater tragedy? Very well, let it be so.
Allow this to become a comedic tragedy at my expense! I wish for you to see through my masquerade—this is no path to enlightenment, but a labyrinth designed as a trap for you and me to coexist.
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