Again, and Again, and Again: A Parable

In a kingdom that had already ended, a sovereign once knelt before his god.

He did this every morning, even though the god had long since stopped listening or perhaps had simply grown too vast to distinguish between worship and weather. Still, the man persisted. He fervently believed that if he prayed hard enough and precisely enough, he might someday repair the vast silence between them.

And so the walls of the chapel leaned inward like old listeners. The candles had burned so many nights that their smoke had stained the ceiling in strange constellations no one could remember having named, and when he spoke, his words rose only as far as that soot.

“Forgive me,” he said.

“For what?” the silence asked.

“For everything,” he said.

At first, he prayed for his kingdom. Then he prayed for mercy, and not long after, for sleep. But over the many years, the words wore thin, their bones beginning to show through their papery, translucent flesh. So, eventually, he prayed simply to keep time, to attempt to distinguish one hour from the next.

Then one night, his reflection in the polished marble began to move before he did. The mirrored figure knelt faster, bowed deeper, and spoke much sooner than he ever had. Its lips shaped the same prayers but with much greater certainty, as though it absolutely knew something the man had long ago forgotten.

When he stopped to listen and analyze, the reflection continued. When he wept, it smiled cryptically, and in the reflection’s eyes, the man saw a light that wasn’t candlelight at all. It was something far older, more patient, and entirely self-contained.

“You are not me,” the man said.

“But I am,” the reflection replied. "I am the part of you that finished believing long ago."

In the mornings that followed, the man found the chapel changed. Now, the altarpiece showed a version of himself robed in gold, an otherworldly circle of flame rising behind his head.

And one by one, the villagers (who had not entered the chapel in decades) began to return. They began to refer to him as the Praying King, and they left offerings at his feet, convinced he was anointed.

He did his very best to tell them otherwise — that he was only a man monotonously repeating a very, very old mistake — but they would not listen, because worship spreads faster than truth. And so the prayers grew louder.

Each time he knelt, the mirrored figure in the marble became clearer and more distinct. Each time he rose, the reflection stayed prostrate longer, as though it had grown fond of devotion.

This made the man apprehensive, so one night, he asked, “What happens if I stop?”

The reflection tilted its head before replying, “Then the world forgets how to begin.”

He stayed awake until dawn, listening to the hum of repetition. The same hymns, the same bells, and the very same people who believed salvation could be bought, sold, and resold with echoes. Over and over again, forever and ever, amen.

He realized, then, that the god he prayed to may be more captive than truly cruel or indifferent. Caught in the same loop of worship and regret. Caught in the same need to be remembered. The man stood. The reflection did not.

“I release you,” he said.

And the candles went out. The marble cooled, and the kingdom outside froze mid-breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

That's when the man turned from the altar and saw his own shadow kneeling where he’d been just a few moments ago, patiently still praying. And so the prayer continued without him. He walked into the dawn anyway.

“Come all, come again. The world remembers how to break itself.” - The Book of Exits: The Turning