The cultural and
societal directions of this country and the world seem to be regressing,
becoming more tribal and defensive and fearful, and dangerous as a result.
People cannot adapt or assimilate to new and different cultures and societies,
unwilling and unable to adapt themselves. I have become strangely more
religious these days. It could be because I can no longer see how I or anyone
else can possibly make life better for myself or my world. The fact that too
many people suffer “out there” becomes less and less bearable for me. On one
hand, I live in Heaven; on the other, I live in Hell. One must be able to live
in both worlds.
His moments of life were
passing before him so utterly clearly, like water flowing in an icy mountain
stream. But he could not sense either the gods or the God speaking to him or to
anyone in any way. Time was slipping like sand out of his grip and all he could
do was sit and wait—and die more as each moment passed. He waited, not
patiently--desperately. It was no wonder existence had become so meaningless
and absurd to him; God no longer spoke nor cared and he was utterly alone. Only
in his dreams was there any hope, but they too were as empty as himself. He was
a shadow; it was as if he no longer existed. And yet he wanted to exist; he
wanted so much to be. He was as a voyeur spying upon himself, waiting for a
sign of life, waiting for God to notice him that he may notice himself, waiting
for the slightest word that he may hear himself.
The room had not changed but
the shadows were not the same. He could not find words; there was only dark
oily smoke in the cold cavern; he held cold coals in his hand but his mind was
empty of any image. He was a blank and, though he stood there in the smoky,
dark coldness, he was nothing. He might as well not exist at all; the embers
were barely burning under a deep cover of ashes. All he needed was fresh fuel
for the fire and the whistling cavernous wind would cause him to burst into
flame once again. What purpose could he burn for now?
His writing was hopeless,
literally and figuratively. People might read it, but he would see that they
could only shake their heads in pity at his inability, his pathetic grasping at
straws as he sank down drowning in his own hopelessness. His anger came from
his last grasps and gasps; he had to pretend that he “had something,” knowing
that whatever it might be would never be apparent to him or anyone else. He
could only see that he had grasped nothing at all after a lifetime of hoping
and praying and grasping. He recalled the words of Leonard Cohen: “Only
drowning men could see him.” And here he was drowning, yet still could not see
him. Drowning in aloneness, standing in the cold, dark, smoky cavern staring at
blank rock face with dumb, frozen fingers and no thought to warm them, much
less move them. There was no voice in his soul, no art in his heart, no sign in
his mind. He had ceased to exist.
If he attempted to
“sit,” he would doze off. He might sit in the hot tub and gaze up at the stars,
which were faintly visible. He hated being faced with nothing possible to do or
be. He had the thought that this place he was in might be Hell itself, though
he knew that the physical pain could make it much, much worse. He was grateful
that, comparatively, his life was very “blessed” and that he was in fact very
“lucky.” Yet there was a profound sense of sadness and incompletion that
weighed heavily upon him. “Next lifetime I’ll be a scale,” he thought, “so that
people can weigh heavily upon me.” Such humor. Philosophers and scales share
this same fate.
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