A SORCERER IN THE REVOLUTION

BUSINESS AS USUAL

   To those living within Time, the Revolution appears as a disruption of events. To the sorcerer who has stepped outside of Time however, life on Earth is always Business-As-Usual.
   The sorcerer lives in a state of monistic sameness and ordered recurrence. At noon the dayside forces have their revolution, and at midnight the nightside usurps the power of the day.
   The sorcerer is a Cosmic Conservative, feasting on human flesh as the mob bangs on his castle doors. A revolution can only mean a disruption of his daily feast, an unwelcome intrusion into his carefully arranged orgy.
   Inhaling a draw of smoke into his blackened lungs, he says I remember too when I was young...
   The memory begins to play internally. Transforming into a handsome young vampire, he takes to the streets. The chaos of the smoke and fire filled night is perfect cover, as he easily picks off prey in the alleyways and indulges his desires.
   The blood of the revolution flows freely, and he eagerly laps it up. He is a gigolo to the Queen, and a comrade to the prostitute.
   The smoke of his exhaled breath clears, and again he is an old man, drifting off in front of a half-eaten plate of human brains.

BECOMING-ENEMY

   Human groups used to be organized into small bands resembling wolf packs. In our vast contemporary societies however, humans have organized themselves into insect hives resembling those of bees or ants.
   Computer technology buzzes with the intelligence of flies. The location of a morsel of food is announced through the networks, and a swarm of humanity arrives on the scene to nibble.
   It would be wrong to call contemporary human beings sheep then, when the course of evolution has arrived back at the insect stage. The sorcerer is a well-practiced insect, having taken up the form long before it became popular. While most larvae are only growing their first wings, he has carefully sharpened pincers, elaborate antennae and well-crafted armor.
   Armor is important. The riot cop's armor is a reflection of his internal state; he is armored against change. The whole world could revolt, and his heart and mind would remain the same. Outnumbered by the crowd, he would only attempt to find shelter in a concealed compound, to nurse his wounded conservatism in peace.
   The sorcerer appropriates the riot cop's shield and night stick for his own purposes. The shield becomes a cosmic cunnus, and the night stick a phallus. In his darkened beetle lair, he penetrates the veil of Night.
   The Revolution has supplied him with new masks, lifted from the severed heads of business leaders and politicians. He attends the party in style, with a millionaire's face. Stitching and dried blood add extra cosmetic points; awkwardly sized eye holes only create a more mysterious and smoldering gaze.
   The sorcerer has learned how to step inside the Enemy's body.

ISOLATION

   Even when living in the middle of the city, the sorcerer is alone. He brings the wilderness with him.
   The pleasures of community are not for him. While protestors join hands in bonds of communal love, the sorcerer is at home, speaking to a puppet.
   Having rejected humankind, he could never make a revolution, he could only foresee it. There's little satisfaction in prophecy. After the mob has dispatched the ruling class of its day, the sorcerer knows they could soon come for him, because of what he is: a monster.
   No matter who is in power, no matter how pure or corrupt a society is, how near or far from utopia, the task of the sorcerer is always to survive.
   He is alone with Night. Together they have made a pact to care for their demonic offspring. His responsibilities are incomprehensible to a normal human being.
   In isolation, all things are possible. The sorcerer has made a sacrifice. He demands the impossible, daily.


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