"Cursed be he by day and cursed be he by night; cursed be he when he lies down and cursed be he when he rises up. Cursed be he when he goes out and cursed be he when he comes in... The Lord will not spare him, but then the anger of the Lord and his jealousy shall smoke against that man, and all the curses that are written in this book shall lie upon him, and the Lord shall blot out his name from under heaven. And the Lord shall separate him unto evil out of all the tribes of Israel, according to all the curses of the covenant that are written in this book of the law."

I am old now. The breath comes slower. The light of the day no longer warms me as it did in youth. And though my body has withered, my mind—this cursed, blessed mind—remains awake. Awake to the beauty. Awake to the sorrow. Awake to the dreadful simplicity of truth.

I see the rituals, those well-worn habits of men who prefer comfort to thought. I see the holy days, dressed in finery and food, yet empty of spirit. I see the churches, grand in their architecture, yet built atop the bones of dissenters. I see men proclaiming love while sharpening swords behind altars. And I see children taught not to question, but to obey.

How simple it is—to choose the fable over the infinite, to bow before fantasy rather than stand before Nature. How seductive the myth, how easy the lie, how comforting the notion that an all-seeing eye grants purpose to suffering, and permission to hate.

But I could not lie.

No divine revelation ever came to me. Only the clarity of reason, and the endless, terrible beauty of existence. It was never God, as they say. It was always Nature. Infinite. Indivisible. Necessary.

And so I became alone.

Alone among men who needed tribes. Alone among those who mistook belonging for truth. I watched them trade wonder for certainty, curiosity for doctrine. I watched them smother the light in their children’s eyes with words they dared not question.

I found no meaning in their rituals—no salvation in their prayers. What meaning could I find in a tradition that demanded silence from thought? That taught men to kill for what cannot be seen, and never was?

No holiday ever warmed me. I could not toast with them, for I had seen the blood beneath their bread. I had seen the families torn apart, the minds mutilated, the wars painted holy.

And so I wept.

Not for myself. I chose this exile. I chose to be cast out. I chose not to kneel.

I wept for their children.

For the wars they will fight, century upon century, in the name of what does not exist.

For the stars they will not see, though they shine above them.

For the questions they will never ask, for fear of the answers.

And now, as death draws near, I leave behind no sermons, no prophecies. Only this: I was free.

Free of guilt—for I imposed no fantasies upon others.

Free of blood—for I shed none in the name of the imaginary.

Free, under the stars.

And to those who condemned me, who cursed my name with a thousand ancient words: I have lived beyond your curse. I have looked upon the infinite without trembling. I have loved the truth, though it gave me no comfort.

I die unafraid.

For I have seen eternity—not in heaven, but in the laws that bind all things, the silent harmony of the universe. I have seen Nature.

And in this vision, I knew, that I was never alone.

Signed, Baruch de Spinoza The Hague, 1677

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