The Beautiful Isle

And you return, repugnant reader, for more of my vomit. Of course you did, for you are empty and desire filling, but let me show you in this text how being filled is bad for you. The writer Anah's philosophical ramblings and mush will service you better, for they slosh like a pool of brine at the bottom of your skull, only to be flushed by reality as you face it.

I write here about the Beautiful Isle.

I have spent many years on this Isle, and its inhabitants do not care for frameworks, nor reference points, nor cleverness. What goes into one of their ears will come out the other; their nets have been removed, and they fish for no fact! They steal their food, and their victims shrug. They sacrifice the bodies of the dead, and yet make no worship. Their doctors poison themselves. The guardsmen watch only the sea.

There is some splendid thing about the Dragon Sea, is there not? Imagine what those first exiled must have thought when they walked the soggy beaches and scaled the cliffs along the waves for days, realizing only at the end of their bitter health that there was no way back. They had been sent there not to die, but to live under the assumption that being trapped physically is to be trapped spiritually.

They became so empty that the garbage that may yet have filled them manifest in the form of snot-piles, sheets of broken glass, and tattered rags. They did not shake meaning from themselves as only those as prosperous as the elves could do, but shake they information.

The inhabitants of the Isle of Exile have nothing else but the wild intensity of reality! Hunger bites! Thirst withers! Murder steals. Death haunts. Glass pierces. Fire stings. The ocean traps. The wind comforts.

Many of them are refugees of Miruvhor, hoping to find something different across the waves rather than across the desert. They see the travelers of the West pass from commons to gate, and wonder where next a coin from their pocket will fall, and never one does! How loveless they must think you are, so called "warriors of light", as you make war for your religions and care only for your protection when those you've snubbed your noses at come to take your lives.

No wonder the Isle of Exile persists. It is further away from the West.

Some would rather live in complete poverty to do what sin their fathers gave them, unhinged. Think you that it be a place of shackles, then read here that any thought to them would be obscene. They are free. Ancient slaves of the long gone Justice and the miserable souls of any who rejected the onset of the Tribune Empire have turned to a grease-like society of nothingness. In fact, this is a place under no Tribunal jurisdiction. Never was it! It was built by the willing who have locked the gate from the inside.

They are in effect no more their ancestors were than the ground is any part the sky. They are completely new, and would they wish to leave, need they ask any hero for help. Today, they live there because no other place in the whole world is as permitting as theirs. They may be ignorant, apathetic, murderous, tired, lazy, thieving, lying, fornicating, disrespectful and crazy, and not a single finger will judge. Not even the fingers of their own consciences.

The ones who find their consciences again quickly die, for their upset at crime invokes the hatred of the unhinged around them.

BOEQ