The Eunuch
The further they went through, hurried beneath the divided sky, the more they began to tell themselves they had martyred already.
Glazed upon that similarity, they yearned the design. Like the electrical poles, like the crosses; laden with pockmarks, remains of innumerous or various staple and nail holes, old weathered bulletins, fraught wood, splinter slit in long splits over their sides; they were rugged, marked, raw, beholding; and if they had to, would hang these two down these small sidestreets epic, novel. The wire connections attached little angles and minor old-fashioned cul-de-sacs without curbs, gravel drives that branched the ideal anointing. Circulated the innumerous pilgrimages richly through to the basilica, where an opening into the woods, as if each infidelity has been tracked to every shade of gray tall atmospheric layer they rolled under over and over unyielding, as if the continuation of the threatening and the electrical flow within that revelation—one for every single sin great or small—made a permanent mark directing everyone’s attention to the place.
“Well now, who’ll encounter us out here?” in some sort of marvelous absolution and sacrifice, they continued; these folks who come here this afternoon and one of them asked practically out loud as the other continued.
That was when what looked like a man, half glorious, half disheveled, spoke. And Similar to the dust-clouding, that is, maybe as the dynamic Tertullian, the glory, that truly does not exist, falls short even, of sainthood, like Origen, with an in-between area, at least from here to the reader; as of yet, separate significance from the reader because of slow Time; or conventionally, from a saint’s period to a modern man’s; and the glorious idea of faith that expanded in that short standard timeframe which had not been distorted I tell you. Yet, without sacrifices—due in part to the feeling martyrs have necessarily done what was required; so many unjustly repent, and only the occasional requests upon them watching over apparently seems contingent—however, to truly consider them at great attention on the man in the great preceding era, requires a different sort of faith. As for, it is like the apologists’ mourn since years presumed in merely triple digits existed; for, how long the hermits dug their own sandy graves in the desert!! for how long Anthony fought the devil in them tombs!! Was how long it took him to respond to her, “eh-everyone??”
Something heroic travels in spoken word; written, though, becomes spread of myth as well; and here, well eagerly telling in fantastic beliefs and magic possibly of such a distance, that somewhere, in sometime—mind the aforementioned saints —one existed, say parted a fire around oneself chained to such a belief. Here are the greatest heroes, loomed once in physiognomy; and I am to believe I witnessed in some old fascination, a life, a miracle, and a day further inferred with one of these saints face-to-face, but, honestly, discovered in that sort of world, with a perception of faith, when these two individuals who consecrated and conceived this holy being out of adultery.
And this child I had believed there remained—by documentation—beneath the wiry connections like beard hairs into faces, and close sporadic gray strands frazzling and curling long with the dark far horizons that once surrounded the ecstasy of warm eyes where they stood, squinted with confidence when this place severed its penis. Not just in as ever awesome as any saint that ever lived, but I believe in every encounter that leveled universes as if in some access through these awfully brave dimensions; which shaped, shifted the entire continuum, Time, and maintained a grotesque elongation of faith in the period from their existence to mine watching them endeavor in that veracity, and that possibility, overlooking a new mulling presented by practical thinking, that they were somewhere; and as continually marveled after such lengths of my own apathy and turned quick in the luxuries of one praying right beside that day, “I know, I know” as Morris had growled contently into that person who wondered about faith. Moreover, as he robustly went, “you are my hero, my hero.” And she just moaned and moaned.
So this new understanding I awaited passed along; finally developed a few, and blended away the myth that fell into a place; for, rapidly gained strength that is intangible, the force that holds through them stories with blessed understanding of such divine diminution, that places mighty wings upon this Morris, and upon the Eunuch he bore as if it were willed, in the same thoughts and literatures as Aquinas, in word without iniquity; in say, joined impetuously to record a sojourn placement along the road for whomever, however long it takes to become published; to some boy centuries forward, a real necessary requisition; wanted to take the path that it takes to create a saint.
“Let me tell you,” he went, “I have been holy set apart, yes. And aware of my own sacrifice in this wheeled chair, I live, though, splendidly in this area of congenial paradise certainly designed by the good will of the Lord for my security, my own severance. An illicit son of an old Franciscan student, the seminary up the road here in Cahreis what I call home. But, all overwhelmed with suffering in this world; yet all the tragic, and all the disappointment with the all mighty and what He left upon this earth as an existence before everyone here around us today, nevertheless, with all this effort for continuation, processes in a mere old tiresome, repetitive pilgrimage. Yet, I know no depletion of faith; of the repletion that grows; and I know the multiple shrines that have come into this place; and perhaps in all effort, I know that I won’t reach some before me, where we are today, as no more than but only an endless dream which merely started years ago.” he told them with lackluster gazes, he deemed it; and to those of whom were not listening let alone present.
Morris could not resist nor control sidled eager twists in firm nudges towards an inexplicable lateral burst that crashed and glimmered the splurge of the shadow of electricity across the sky, which circulated from the galvanic mulling in their musty expanding imaginations, insinuations and ensued a half forgetting of the nearly halting consumption of the interceding power, when the intermediate focus essentially within the woods and his confidence of them possible patrons alongside yet assumed Morris as if a carcass turned roadside when further the transformer had parted the portion of the woods and exposed these two instantly healed by a laying on of hands today, “of course, with enough faith.” As enormous and rather rude an intrusion that disembarked there from the procession.
Not far along the modest stretch of road outstood the impressive edifice, which nearly took all the awe from Morris’ claim. The burst and the fire up in the electrical wires as this congregation promenaded in tens of thousands in its shadows with a similar hallowed fire atop their own clutches, toward the upper basilica. Nearly all of them shared their ailments as they approached, a whole murmur of cries and complaints swept across the way. To the park benches out in the front lawn of the gift shop, the overpopulated throngs emerged into. The sick, in indulgence, unwound prayers instantly in mind; and because Morris continued with them that made it inside behind the shrine, the thunder rolled the clouds over which nearly fell like a river in pieces on those left outside.
Whereas he knew, just as saints had known in the old stories, Morris knew he was already chosen to be revealed in the limitless; a seemingly inevitable and only apparent in mind and hope ridiculousness that overwhelmed. I otherwise was in an ordinary grave instance that generated over the binding of some spirit and vanished into the curbless streets unseen.
He already knew before my thoughts were even in the roads outside. Morris’ vehement, knew the punishment of a child conceived in this manner or style; as if implying the storied right to oppose pagans, gave way to the impression of him being merely an untouchable stain in a glass window. “Consequences are much harder than decisions,” he claimed. Where the complete awareness of minding physical contact within me realized his coat against my hands, without thinking, crossed several times to which everyone in their excruciated fingers thought that they must convince themselves by relying on these words, what he did know, was the impressive child that would be born.
Something of magnificence that neither sight itself nor heart, no, only the soul could withstand followed. “You will need more than just pleads from today here travelers; requires innumerable confessions, countless searches for truth. Today is mine and this blessed boy’s.” …But no one celebrated this comment. It was like looking for something and when they found it they could not have it. No one else knew to follow, to dream alongside of it. Never partake in what it is. The place overwhelmed the day in and day out with all the suffering in the world, all the tragedy, of the disappointing many that had lost the faith and more confined atmosphere, there, with such lucid vicarious perceptions and despairing fiddles, they slowly, upon whirling miniature begging, perhaps, at lengths, gripped into clutching, winding importune prayers to be healed and astonishment that these two did I not melt beneath them. And that was it. Over and over in the smallest breaths he said to her, “I know. I know. I know. I know…” though they did not know what for.
After the mass ended and we were instructed, all the thousands before the priest, to go in peace. So spread the cruel assumptions that just swelled within the bellied land of gravestones by the black spire fences over time; they now carry a thinking that saints await hallowed to give souls to the Lord; because of the instant ability to prayer in the last minute before the only place to find this beautiful physical realm is gone astray. Just as so, upon entering the glorious brightness outside the dim tremendous lull of the stain glass aura, house of God mind you, the outdoors (is his realm, too, right?), before this pathway serried in a routine and rather rude intrusion, some perennial parade for the half forgotten nearly halting all consumption of the intermediate knowledge, and as if assumed to just turn the carcass roadside, now remains with an old-fashioned and uncertain unveiling . . . . no wait. Hold on, not Eunuch….Centaur, the Centaur! Oh, oh man! Oh lord, now I probably seem just completely ridiculous. I apologize. … Morris was supposed to be a Centaur with a lady, and… oh this is embarrassing.