They blindfolded him long ago, and he did not mind. He had stopped needing eyes.
Now he sees through others. Two glass eyes sit on his head like horns, turning slowly, watching the road, the gate, the crowd. They never close and never blink. Nothing passes them. Wires run from his crown of thorns into his chest, and the chest is empty: an old plaster head on a body of wire mesh, chains and cable, a hollow vessel through which some other voice speaks.
People come to him from every village. They bring their fears and wait. He tells them what he sees.
And here is the strange part. The same words go out to everyone, but no two people hear the same prophecy. The frightened hear doom. The proud hear victory. The guilty hear judgement, the hopeful hear rescue. Each of them walks home certain that the prophet spoke to him alone, and each of them is right.
For we rarely come to a prophet for the truth. We come for proof of what we already believe. Not the truth, but our own truth.
The prophet knows this. That is why he wears the blindfold. The cameras see everything. They understand nothing. The understanding is left to those who listen.
"Look, how the world's poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies."
William Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis
(Fine Art Photography. Created in February 2023.)
