There is a progression in all things. Fear, with its fevered grip upon mind and bowel; madness, in all its fractured extremes; belief, rising with blind certitude from the trough between despair and hope. And what of truth? Truth stands. Raised immutable and proud. Indurate as stone. Exalted. Godlike. Ah yes, godlike. And in just this singular arrogance, this presumption upon divine immortality, was truth’s ruin first conceived. Truth’s ruin? Impossible, you cry.

Mortal fools. What other end was ever possible? Before the inexorable sweep of time, the sovereign majesty of eternity, how can such an artifact as truth but fail. In her epochal dissolution, her final poverty, truth will lie prostrate amidst the rot of her own dust, the exhausted shadow of once sublime dominions of thought, her end to join the bone yard of mortal philosophies strewn like cold ash across the ages of man. Truth? Truth exists like all creation, within but the gods’ many dreams. And some would cry, within the many shades of madness.

 

– A Commentary on Truth

Anonymous