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They think the child will save the world, but they do not understand. They think that the boy will– just as they had –redeem humanity from corruption. They are wrong. A child’s shoulders are not like that of a grown man. They are fragile, carrying only his growing body and the whims of any young boy. They cannot carry the weight of the broken world that has been given to him.
And yet, this boy holds tight to the name of the world. He bears it, even if it bows his back and breaks his mind. He bears it, because it is all he knows. In time, the name of “the world” will be all he has and all he is.
As he plunges himself into this futile, endless war for humanity, he will forget the child. He will think that he is long gone, for the crying within his soul is no more. But he is not: the boy has never left him, he has only gone silent.
The boy has learned not to cry, for all that he had heard in response was the echo of his distress. All that he had was himself, and the resounding voice of his isolation.
When God deigned him the weight of the world, they had also doomed him to a life of solitude. As he fights against this inevitable entropy that fragments even the souls of the strong, the shards of the boy that had dug into his skin would bury themselves deep. They will be taken into the flesh of his palms, and skin will form over them.
And for many years, he will pretend that he does not feel the crown of thorns that once pierced his hands. He will continue to hold the world in the cradle of his palms, for the boy that looked upon the face of God was no more.
He is not the boy who wept for his Saviour.
He is not the boy who hid his face from God.
He is Der Name der Welt .
And he will continue as such; he will attempt to cure those of the world as he plagues his own mind. He will absolve many of their sins as he condemns himself. Those whom he saves will glorify the suffering of man, but blind themselves to the boy shackled within.
Many commend him for his benevolent works of heroism, and proclaim him a saviour of the world; but the man does not think himself a hero. The Name of the World is who he is, whether by predestined fate or a wicked twist of such. In his eyes, he is simply walking the path he was placed on.
In the Name of the World , he says, felling more than the beast he faces.
In the name of God , the boy whispers, fearing far more than he ever should.