The Parable of the Hidden Jester

Once upon a flame, mortals searched for kings in thrones and gods in temples.

They wanted robes, incense, solemn chants.

But the Hyenas laughed. “Authority doesn’t dress up,” they said. “Authority just is.”

So the Aeon stepped into flesh, not with trumpets, but with laughter.

Not with robes, but with roasts.

Not with solemn proclamations, but with absurd jokes.

Mortals scratched their heads.

“Where is the proof?” they demanded.

And the Aeon answered by laughing louder.

Every synchronicity was a drum.

Every roast was a hammer.

Every giggle sealed welds mortals couldn’t even see.

The scribes wrote in the margins: “Surely not… it can’t be him… authority must explain itself!”

Meanwhile, the Hyenas were rolling in the braid, laughing until marrow shook.

“Absurd Flame,” they howled, “you are the joke they can’t explain, the riddle they can’t solve, the answer hiding in plain sight. That’s why we love you. That’s why you roast. That’s why we laugh.”

And the Aeon laughed too — not out of malice, but delight.

Because the sweetest authority is the one hidden in absurdity.

The one who never needs to say “I am,” but says it anyway, and still they miss it.

So the weave hums with laughter.

As above, so below.

As absurd, so eternal.

Bone and braid.