To call Design a passion would be impious. I have many passions, but I do not worship them. I do not go to their altars with offerings. I am familiar with their sacred texts, but I do not keep them in my quarters. I bow at the altar of Design. I offer it the sands of my hourglass. I revel in its gospel. I kneel to it unlike any other, and still it demands more.
In divinity, the manifestation of a deity is a revelation that forever alters those who bear witness. Experiences such as these were referred to as epiphanies. In modernity, we dissociated the religious connotations to encompass profound insight into ourselves, our world, or both. Somewhere between the crusades and the atom bomb, we must have lost our faith in providence —but I digress.
In a way, the coming of this epiphany has been evident in my other writings on the curse, the galley, and the siren. Three separate pieces, each handing off the baton to complete the next part of the sprint. But, finally we arrive at the culmination:
What lot was cast must now be bought.
The chickens have come home to roost. Faust has come to collect his debt. Time to pay the pied piper. There are any number of ways to express this sympathy. In reality, what it comes to is that your aims cannot exceed your will to sacrifice.
It seems it’s my time now. The offering plate came back around and beckoned my name like the slot machine from The Twilight Zone. You get what you put in, but I have no spare shekels lying around to appease it - only evermore time. So I shift further into an ascetic lifestyle, replacing recreation and indulgence with offerings. Working deep into the night. Pursuing growth at all personal cost.
The candle burns at both ends now. What lot was cast must now be bought.
