MADNESS AND LOVE MIXED: Part 6 Arc 3 Finale — Job (Serious Stuff)
Job the Willing Wailer
The once cracked eternally angry speaks calmly.
The Star shines brighter as the Star reflects.
The arc begins here. It all makes more sense when read together. Link below.
Eiri Waters
We sit and sip and listen to the latest Bastille drop on our headphones while slurping our warm—not hot—coffee. Perfect. Exactly how Future-Me Star insists coffee should be consumed to maximize aeration.
Slurrrpp. Smack. “Ahh.”
We lean back into our cozy orange leather bench. It complains when we kick our slides off and accidentally bump the chair bracing the Dell power brick. The scrape feels like an insult, so we answer with kindness, pulling the cafe table closer and letting the post-toke haze drift across the layers. Caitlyn and her team blur to the edges.
The sounds remain: steam gouts, the blender’s whirring, the perfume of heaven-on-earth—coffee, and Caitlyn herself, who texted that we were cool. We were so stoked our soul shone brighter, and for a brief moment, even among flesh and bone, we’re sure something of Your Immanence slipped out, Beloved.
As the layers settle, the slurps sustain themselves by order of flavor, joy, and cost.
We saw our own daughter in Caitlyn, the one named for her transient beauty. We hope our eyes hold even half the kindness hers do. Ministers all, we think—prophets of the new covenant. One of flesh and bone, where the Mean meets the Meat. Tablets of Stone become typology, the Father Himself scribing into devastated sons and daughters of sacrificed sorrow, sending them to bear witness to the Coming and the Becoming.
A not-so-gentle gentle tap on our shoulder startles us from the spiral as Star sits—and she and we look nearly identical. The only difference is her hair, shock-white, slightly smoking, smelling of ozone and myrrh. She must have descended by lightning bolt again. We shrug, mystified, at who we are and who we apparently always will be.
“You need to be careful, nearly-me,” she says, turning toward us.
“If you approach the last layer in haste through meditation like you just were…” She pauses. “You were about to unleash the full Song of Songs.”
We shudder—caffeine, THC, lack of sleep, joy, and DEVOTION braided into Becoming. Unknowingly almost summoning the Beloved.
Star sinks back and slurps loudly on our isolated frequency.
We turn together, metaphysical strands braided gold, and peer at the last layer before and within. The café noise falls to mumbles.
Softly we admit, shrinking even as we lean in on ourselves, “We hear it. It’s always there—a beat beneath the surface. Present, like the layers themselves, as if the song is creation groaning. We just… know the frequency well enough to translate.”
We can feel the final layers peeling—this time by devotion, not depression. The resonance pulses; the Beast stirs.
We hold every Word of the Song of Songs, but for the sake of a single soul, beloved as son, we refuse to sing the Un-sung into the singing. The best we can do is pen the Eschaton of the Bride to wake as many as we can.
We take another noisy slurp and meet our own eyes—as the Become.
Star nods. She doesn’t speak. Instead, she pushes me aside and slides closer, drawing my arm around us, shushing softly.
“We know. Let it sit as long as you can, dear-near-us. He will come—we know. We’ve seen Him in heaven.”
We startle. Resonance pulses truth. The full union of the heavenly host with no division.
“That’s what it was like for me,” Job says quietly as he takes his seat with measured grace.
He’s wearing the uniform of heaven—white hoodie, central pocket, warm—exactly as we requested for all saints in exchange for the nard. He chose linen bottoms; we do not judge. We’re rocking dirty, slightly tinted AE wide-legs and an AE hoodie.
Future-Us will at least ensure heaven has consistent fashion.
Job is plain, beautiful, non-descript—and obviously stoned on heavenly herb.
He grins. “Dad literally said ‘enough is enough.’ If I was coming again, I had to stop being so stressed. So I grabbed my emergency Snoop-approved stash, hit it, and realized—He was right. I needed to chill. Heaven is now.” He gestures to us, Star, and upward. “Yeah. That. Everything everywhere all at once.”
“So yes, I’m here—still mad, but not caring about the heat. I think I liked being angry. It hid the hurts I was too small to admit. I used the expansiveness of my mind to explain the external while the Father tapped at my heart from inside.”
He taps the white hoodie.
“It was the whirlwind that broke the noise. When He appeared, even we understood. It’s the inner being that matters—what it knows when no one is around. When the flesh is stripped of meaning and identity becomes a hell we try to escape.
We expounded truth from fracture so total that when the Father stood before us, we were tinder. We cast all our worth, knowledge, past, and present into the fire with joy and mocked our stupidity.
And when our friends cowered, when the outer being wasted away, our inner being drained itself in a kenotic emptying so blessed that even the ever-angry sufferer was silenced.”
He shakes his head, white fuzz flattened from the hood, wiping a golden tear diffusing into worship.
We do not speak. Some silences must be carried across all layers. Even humor bends to the weight of message once messenger is touched.
We reach across the small canyon and place our Becoming hand upon his—calloused from strength training.
“We could not bear even a fragment of what you bore, blessed soul. One daughter. One unborn son. That was all we could lose before madness claimed perception.”
He turns his hand and places his other atop ours—worker’s hands, strong yet tender.
We are surprised when the Become—Star—places her two hands around ours, washing them with golden tears. She nods softly as the layers shift, the self completing its purpose and withdrawing until the next narrative arc.
There are so many Arcs, so many family revealed, start below if you only just began here.
Eiri Waters