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Apocalypse for a Dissociated Creator

by Bertil Falk

7. The Seventh Seal


Oh, children of latter days, if you only knew what the world has suffered and enjoyed. How unsuspecting are generation after generation, how unconscious of guilt, how foolishly misled into emptiness, thinking that suicide attacks pave the way to Paradise.

Just think of not even getting to know what one has missed. And there appeared before all the eyes what had been regarded as unseeable and mortal and blinded to shreds; the very Creative Force like a formless iceberg of pure crystal with a rainbow as its crown.

Oh, the people of Thy Time, who produced the riddles of Time, give us your saturation in this fog of betrayed faith and trust. Before this sight of enormous significance, the populations of the heavenly bodies were so awfully astonished that the very impressive manifestation itself did not do itself justice.

Johanna Paula XI felt insecure, to say the least, as she stood in the presence of what she represented in the world: a mountain as white as chalk and made of shining crystals. The White Cliffs of Dover of the Divinity

It was not exactly what she had expected. Neither had anyone else. She looked around and tried to find Petrus, but she did not see him. She nevertheless held the Petrine key in readiness and hoped that the Vatican version of the key to the Kingdom of Heaven would fit the keyhole.

A rain of heavenly confetti snowed over the Existence, and the choir from Galatrism came out with a resounding “Open the door, Petra, open the door and let it out.”

Johanna Paula stepped forward to the keyhole that hung suspended in the universe, broke the seal that had been sealed with sealing wax across the hole, put the key inside and turned it.

A celestial winged, swanlike, sevenfold lizard came sailing with a harlot in a golden space suit as the lizard-woman, as though to confirm the conquest of everything during the last past millennia.

And this serpent had ten diamond-equipped horns and seven heads. And on the nauseating heads with running eyes, snot-filled ears and purulent bleeding noses, they could read: Whore, Whoremonger, Cocksucker, Motherfucker, Shiteater, Asshole and Rosebud.

As if hypnotized by the eyes of the seven heads, Mother Saulcerite felt an intractable disposition to fall down and worship the loathsome monster. But Paxinterra saw what was on the point of happening. He rushed ahead and put the hairy book into her hands. With trembling fingers, she opened the book at page 777 and saw THE WORD.

And the wild beast stretched out its wings and on them they could read SIX HUNDRED AND SIXTY SIX. Each wing had a length of a billion light years, and the wingtips never touched each other since they were beyond each other’s unimpeachable event horizons with their impossible monopoles consisting of isolated magnetic poles just like hot dogs with just one end.

A terrific bliss got the upper hand, and in the most beautiful skies of tender movements that cannot be described, the choir-singing passed into a peal from the creative organ of Deneb. Diaphanous dreams of friendship and Paradise filled the Universe. The wrecks of Existence washed ashore on the beach of eternity and stood out in bold relief like bluish shadow-like silhouettes against a background of perihelia.

Skeletons, which sat up out of silence, began to fight over the fleshly remains of themselves, parts that had already been parts in millions of other beings, all of whom took part in the scramble. It was not exactly how it had been planned and everything calmed down on a sign from the mountain of crystal. There was not, in this respect, the literalist’s belief that was valid but the reality of Emanuel.

An old prophecy says the Tree of Life stands between the street of the city and the river, on both sides of it. The Tree gives twelve harvests, one harvest for each month, and the leaves of the trees serve as medicine for the people. That prophecy had been reshaped here and there depending on the varying length of the years and the number of months on different planets.

But it remained that nothing confounded would exist any more, and the Word of God and the Lamb of God should be there inside, and his servants would worship Him. It was then that Carolus Brainflower, the eternal doubter who lacked faith in the excellence of the Godhead, came forth, and he did not mince matters.

“The sufferings of Job never got a credible explanation. How could Thou let Satan murder Job’s children for the silly reason of trying his faith? Nobody seems to ask why these innocents had to be made victims.

“And what about the grotesque attempt to cover up Satan’s crime by letting old man Job live very long and have new children? As if they could replace the murdered children?

“And what about the salvation of the murdered children? Should not the Church have canonized those victims of the arrogance of Satan and of Thy divine jealousy?

“Should a creative God be jealous of the children of His creation? Much can be explained by man’s free will, but these actions of Satan in agreement with God cannot even be explained with Job’s free will. It’s the test as such that must be questioned.”

The ancient problem of theodicy thus reared its not very pretty head as it had so many times before when even many believers tormented by doubts had made similar accusations.

“Answer me, O Lord, Thou Creator of mine! Answer! Explain now that you have the opportunity after all these eternities.”

The age-old question seemed to spread through the universe, resounding between the Milky Ways of the galaxies. It wedged itself between the planets and descended on the planetoids. It penetrated heavenly bodies and cooled its agitation in boiling oceans.

It burned with the glow of Hell and it solidified into an eternal accusation down there at absolute zero, where no explanations exist and no answers are given.

Nor could the Creator reply. Or the Creator did not choose to answer.

Instead the iceberg that had created the world began to crack and break and burst and disintegrate into smaller elements, snowing until the tundras of Everything were covered with fine, thin and unreasonable snow.

And with Carlous Brainflower’s unanswered question floating like a trembling discord that was suspended as if it were a dream filled with tears in the shimmering haze of eternity, evening and morning were the seventh day and it lasted far away into the endless mazes of Time...

Copyright © 2002, 2009 by Bertil Falk

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