Who is the Nether Paragon?

Who is the Nether Paragon? - is the question at the end of every test. What people really mean when they ask ‘how are you doing?’ The Nether Paragon is the end result of ambition. A wizard of our own making who in turn makes us suffer so we can become more like him. It will always take us by surprise.


Who is the Nether Paragon? A shipwrecked survivor enlightened by the jagged beauty of his former life, claimed by barnacles. Their rose feathers gentle as smoke, their concern for him not even a concept. 

The ship never actually wrecked, but it left you here on your way to find the Nether Paragon. It seemed like a storm, a crash. Lopsided prayers as virtuous citizens stepped on the backs of drowning children to secure a spot on the lifeboats. They knew you didn’t belong there, and you knew it as well. This solution works best for everybody. So few of us really need to answer this question.


Who is the Nether Paragon? How could such a being or concept as the Nether Paragon even exist? What ghastly property of language allows us to conjure phantoms with the power to shred reality?

The old master walks with a stick and can still drink from the streams. Every day upon rising, he is there with his bucket. It is merely for the sake of humility though. He pretends to be someone or some thing because we are watching. We have found him, despite his attempts to cloud himself in non-accessible spheres. So why don’t we say ‘hi’?

Maybe the royal ‘he’ isn’t working for you. You’re working for ‘him’ though, like it or not. That’s a little joke. The Nether Paragon is a master of deflection. Such a great master, it is the reason for the existence of everything.

All being - an echo of the original thought - runs screaming from the Nether Paragon.


What a cushy thing, what a privilege it is, to be haunted by the specter of the Nether Paragon. What a delightful distraction from the stupid job. The stupid house. The stupid people. Who am I kidding? This isn’t a house at all. What luxury it is to flagellate oneself for the guilt felt by disgust of all one possesses. To long for the cradling silence of the Nether Paragon. To contemplate such levels of abstraction. Obliterate!


. . . a group of people coordinating movements in the sun. A religious observance, or a crosswalk. The city is dizzying at the bottom. Crushed by sky. Only the sewers are safe. Until one of us bright ones starts the final fire. The burning beneath that no one sees coming. Only noticing the tiny up-tics in anxiety, quick-footedness, geysers of green gas.

Every now and then we need to be reminded to flee from the Nether Paragon. Even if our gut instinct is that the Nether Paragon is for the benefit of all, we can’t be sure everyone else thinks that. And even if they did, they certainly wouldn’t say it.

And so it is, by removing key stones that we’re sure no one would miss, the castle topples into the sea.