A "metaphysical" look on God. Non-fiction/essay/hybrid story

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Nothing, once you think about, could tempt you to rethink God together again.

When you’re a poet, you’re often lonely, and nobody thinks of you as one of their own. Instead, you’re deemed a social outcast, and you’re forced to traverse the gloomy plains of existence with your head bowed. Alas, however, as a poet, you must prevail over the realms of the miserable and surpass the fields of sorrow—for it is the duty of the supreme poet to think; thinking constitutes the existence of a poet, and it is through sheer willpower that he may overcome his worries and reconnect with the metaphysical God.

You say, but how can a poet “reconnect” with God? With the aid of a quill pen and some paper, a poet can do many things; he can travel many lands; he can meet many people; he can indulge in his own delusional fantasies. The poet has power, but power unlike God. The power of the poet lies in his pen and his mind. Thus, the poet can sit idly for many hours, contemplating his own feelings, seeing the world in a new light while reality rushes past him like a flood. His thoughts make thunder; his breathing makes wind. If he’s sad, his tears make the rain. However, his primary duty within the current plane of reality is not only to write, but to reconstitute God in His original Oneness, and to create the thoughts of those who came before him.

The universe—that infinite reality—is a poetic or artistic creation, a “plot of God.” It was created as a result of God’s own dissolution of His original unity, and His self-radiation into Space; presently, it is at a point of maximum diffusion, slowly contracting towards a final reassembly in—and as—God. Since God, in creating this magnificent piece of artwork, fragmented Himself into His creatures, and now only exists as individualizations of Himself, it the duty of them, and them only, to restore the original Oneness. This is accomplished through a counter-impulse. Thus says the Poet.

The counter-impulse must be spiritual or intellectual in character, since the source of all motion is thought. Since the universe is a work of art, the counter-impulse must also be imaginative. It is thus the duty of God’s creatures, and that of the primordial poet, to think God together again by discovering, through the power of poetic imagination, the primal unity of the present diversity. Thus says the Poet.

The true response to the Creation, that of Genesis, is to take an imaginative delight in beauty and harmony, both seen and unseen. To deny the holiness of poetic imagination, to prefer some other mode of knowledge, to deny its validity, is to deny God and fall out of His Grace. The reality of the Planet Earth, that phantasmal thought of God’s creatures, has done that, and preferred scientific rationalism, preferring material fact rather than visionary truth. The souls of men have grown dark, diseases, insensitive; physical nature has even fallen from its own divine beauty. Before the Earth can rejoin the cosmic process and assist in reconstituting God, it must be purified by the Word of God, written by His prophets Moses and others. Thus says the Poet.

The fallen plant is not the perfect environment for the Poet. In him alone does the spark of imagination burn brightly; his soul alone vaguely remembers, from a previous existence, a divine beauty and harmony, and wishes to return there. Yet, everything surrounding him conspires to reduce him to a degraded level: the scientist and utilitarian discredit him, their corrupt thoughts invade his consciousness, and nowhere in the physical realm can there be found suitable objects for contemplation. His only means of escape is the suspension of outward consciousness, and a deliberate retreat from the temporal, rational, physical world into the visionary depths of his mind.There, in the immaterial regions of dream, he can purge himself of all earthly taint, and deliver himself to visions of that heavenly beauty which is the thought of God. Thus says the Poet.

The Poet is thus at war with the external world. But he is also, unfortunately, at war within himself. As a pre-existent soul, or as a happy child, he once enjoyed a perfect psychic harmony: his consciousness was purely imaginative, and he knew the universe for the poem that it is. However, as he grew older on this corrupted Earth and entered the society of men, it was unavoidable that his integrity of being should be compromised and destroyed in favor of logic and prosaic fact: his awakening passions drew him toward the merely physical: conscience began its contests with desire: and there arose in him a mysterious spirit of perversity. Like the universe, the poet’s soul has lost its original unity; and like that universe, it will not regain that unity except in death. Until then, the poet’s imagination must struggle not only against the mundane and physical aspects of his divided nature: he will not now find it easy to disengage his spirit from earthly things, and commune with that heavenly harmony. Thus says the Poet.

The Poet thus finds himself traveling the world alone, in a constant state of wanderlust, looking for the path towards the final reconstitution of God. Dressed all in black with a top hat, he wanders as though he had not a purpose in this life or the next. He finds himself as a modern version of the Buddha. Born intelligent, yet socially awkward, he thinks, but the thinking is to get closer to God. He finds himself in the oceans of desert, where turbaned men go upon camels. It is in him alone that all can come together. Alas, however, the Poet is lost. He knows not where to go next, and must ask for directions, but since everything that now exists will exist in the future, he ignores this dilemma, and instead continues upon his journey toward enlightenment.

He sees that man is corrupt, but the corruption is not his fault. The corruption of men has come as the result of thousands of years of turmoil and misgivings, the direct result of not being able to reconnect with God. Man has not done his duty in the massive universe, that artistic creation, to be artists themselves and help build God as He previously existed. The Poet knows this. Men are ignorant in the ways of the artist, and since things that we know to exist are indeed the work of God, they do not understand their true purpose. The Poet must, therefore, think and write down his thoughts, since the written word will come together as the Thought of God.

The Poet writes thus,
In his life’s journey, Man is led astray,
Toward the idiotic plains of infinite twigs;
And there, he sees the Seraphim say,
“In the name of the Prophet – figs!”

As the Poet’s journey comes to its denouement, in the apotheosis of all deserts, there he finds a monastery erected in the name of Leibowitz. It is there he rests for a thousand years; and when he dies, his life-cycle begins anew as a new Poet, one to deliver a new message. He blesses the land and makes it holy, and proclaims it in the name of the Lord and Savior Christ Jesu. As a figurative Poet, as a metaphysical representation of his former self, he spends the next thousand years being a social philosopher, and erecting a shrine to the proper God.