The blunt edge of a two-edged sword

I sit alone again ... naturally.

The sharp sword that I regularly swing needs sharpening.

Tonight, its sharp edges are blunt.

I have swung it tirelessly throughout the years. But now, my body is tired. My muscles are weakened by stress. The sword droops downward, parallel to my bowed head.

Tears stream down my face, as they have often, but hardly seen by others ... hidden away behind a mask that I wear ... a mask that hides the man I long to be ... a man tired of fighting, tired of swinging a sword constantly, brazenly, unlovingly, with force against the grain of hardened hearts ... against necks stiffened by pride.

I cut two more close supporters recently. I had no choice but to cut them fast and deep, leaving wounds that will be slow to heal, emotional reparations needed, but racing against a mortal clock that is ticking faster and faster, far past the eleventh hour, with just seconds to go until the twelfth hour.

I cut my closest supporters with my sharpness, bringing them to tears, tearing at the confidence of their self-sustaining strength and love for me and the work that I do. Their sacrifices are greater, far greater than mine ... I believe, which I must, so that I can continue to do what they cannot, what they have not strength to do, what they depend on me to do ... for them ... for all of humanity.

Here I find myself, weeping with self-pity, struggling with pain and immense sorrow, not for me, but for them ... at least that's what I have to tell myself. Sometimes I feel like I am deceiving myself into believing in my own importance ... as they believe ... as my recruiters remind me when I get this way.

This question often causes me sorrow, self-deprecating insolence of doubt ...

If not me, then who?

"Oh, if I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart!" (See BOM, Alma 29:1.)

They wrote the above for Joseph. They wrote it and included it in their storyline to lift Joseph's spirit when his family, friends, and peers couldn't see the real intent of what he was doing, the true purpose of the incredible story that he was presenting to them, a story filled with hope for the world, a story that Joseph could not tell them much about ... a story that was rejected then, and continued to be rejected ... his family, friends, and peers choosing evil instead of good, ignoring "decrees which are unalterable, according to their wills, whether they be unto salvation or unto destruction." (See BOM, Alma 29:4.)

Oh, how often they have spoken words of encouragement to me. The words they use, few understand. Nevertheless, they can look at me and speak to me in whatever language they choose ... and they know all languages, all dialects, all the words ever invented. An eleemosynary (their word) look is not spoken ... it is felt. It's what I felt when I held the tiny hand of the Son of My Right Hand, Bearer of Christ ... (for those with eyes that see and ears that hear). When the infant smiled back at me, his True Self spoke unheard words that even his mother could not hear ... I love you, Christopher.

How do you see, hear, feel, taste, and smell a word ... love?

But I did!

At that one moment, the little boy spoke to me without saying a word.

At that moment, my heart was filled with hope. Why would this little boy's True Self come to Earth at the moment when I needed to feel love and hope ... when I was at one of the lowest points in my life ... if what I was doing was not important?

And that experience is what caused me to cut two of my dearest friends to the core. These two cannot live next door to this boy and cause the angst and emotional distress that their mortal weaknesses can cause.

Few know about what I write above. But those who do, now realize why I did what I did. I could not live in peace knowing that just a few inches of wall isolated the precious infant from potential negativity and pain. I did what I had to, not for me ... for him ... for them.

As I swung my sharp sword with precise intent, with calculated depth, I found my closest companions doubt the cuts that I made. Their lack of trust in my judgment cut me to the core ... and I cut them, too.

So it is that I find myself in turmoil, weakened by the force of my blows, fighting foes, turning friends into foes.

Oh, how strong the hate I feel from the world! It's a hate that few have felt ... maybe some have felt it from a few, but not from so many. It's not a hate that is acknowledged. But it's a hate that I bring on myself, because of what I do, what I say, what I write. Hate that is a result of fear, is the worst kind of hate.

And they say, that love overcometh hate and fear. What 'they say' is wrong! "They" couldn't be more wrong! I do not do what I do out of hate. I do what I do out of love ... a love that few have ever felt from me, because they fear me.

Is it, that I want the world to speak well of me? This thought brings to mind, "Woe unto you, when all men shall speak well of you! for so did their fathers to the false prophets." (See Luke 6:26.)

I want only to practice what I preach: love your enemies, bless them that hate you and despitefully use you.

And I am reminded by my recruiters that I DO bless them ... with the Real Truth™.

I wanted something extravagant, something that would allow me to isolate from the world, and run from its hate. I had only to mention what I wanted, and those who are much more worthy of being called "good and faithful servant[s]" (See Matthew 25:21.) didn't blink an eye, they didn't think twice, I had what I wanted, what I felt I needed, something that far exceeded my needs, but facilitated and fulfilled my selfish wants ... for which the guilt rose up again, and I wondered what more can anyone sacrifice for me ... not for the work necessarily, but for me?

My website went back online, for all to see. I have nothing to hide. And then I read some of my supporters' stories, and it helped ... to cause me more guilt for being so spoiled, so cared for, so loved, yet so stubborn that I focus more on how I am hated, than on how much I am loved.

And more of what the Real Illuminati® wrote for Joseph comes to mind:

And behold, when I see many of my brethren truly penitent, and coming to the Lord their God, then is my soul filled with joy; then do I remember what the Lord has done for me, yea, even that he hath heard my prayer; yea, then do I remember his merciful arm which he extended towards me. (See BOM, Alma 29:10.)

But truly, it is not only the hate that often zaps me of my strength and causes me to sorrow. I sorrow greatly for this world. The answers of salvation are so very simple! So simple!

But "hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on Earth, goodwill towards men." (

The pride of this world is inconceivable, incomprehensible, but Oh, so strong and real!

The news media does not investigate and report on what is actually happening in our world, certainly not as much as it could ... about the poor, the needy, the afflicted. It's not fun to know what is happening. But my mind is connected to the pain and sorrows of my family ... not of my mortal, birth family, of which I am no longer a part, nor will ever be again ... but of the human family. It's this connection that becomes hard to bear.

I do things to distract my mind. Whatever I can. Whenever I can.

I would not wish the role of a True Messenger on my worst enemy. And ... My worst enemy is actually ME!

Well is it said that ignorance is bliss. I have no ignorance, not of anything.

Oh, how I wish that I were ... not an angel ... but ignorant!

O that I were ignorant, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak with gentle kindness to all the world, with a voice that comforts and coddles the earth, and cry with joy and happiness unto every people!

Yea, I would declare unto every soul, as with the voice of softness, hope in the plan of salvation, that they should love their self, first, then their neighbor as they do their self, that there might not be more sorrow upon all the face of the earth.

But behold, I am a man, and do sin in my wish; for I ought to be content with the things which the my True Self hath allotted unto me. (Compare Book of Mormon, Alma 29:1-3.)

My self-pity will pass ... and it will come again.

Tomorrow I will awaken ... if I can possibly sleep tonight ... and I will look at that sharp two-edged sword always ready at my side. I will wipe off the blood from the deep wounds it inflicts. Then I will sharpen it until its edges shine like a diamond razor.

I will do what I have been asked to do ... what OUR GROUP expects me to do.

But for now ...

I will cry and pray for ignorance ... for I am the one ...

The one like unto the Man from La Mancha: