The true past is an immemorial event that took place infinitely long ago. It bubbles over with shadows and polysemy. At some point the world's past - the blistering singularity from which the fabric of our universe blossomed - and my own shadows of obscure and mutely important grounding and traumatizing events merge together. Wasn't there a time before the dew began dripping down my stem? Isn't there a perspective from which the coordinates of my practical existence shine through the crystals as a silky crosshatch? Apocalypse is knowledge of this past - real, embodied, emotive and imaginative knowledge - to the point of weeping with joyful sorrow.
And just as much, it is knowledge of the future: the glorious vision of God. Ecstatic self-sacrifice, ground down and rent by the jaws of becoming, hugging its molars, caressing the ridge of its mouth. Wading through the stars of the transcendental, where thought's determination has no owner, where lava shoots through soundless space. The radical freedom and power of Haqq commands suicide - obedience to the command entails dissolution of the very self that finally became equal to the act at the very moment of its execution.