p.9 the Red Letters

I stood up, walked down along the brick wall a bit further, and threw the rope up over an overhanging tree branch I could just barely reach after a couple tries.

“Why did this all have to be so fucking hard? ” I said aloud. I guess to God. 

They say if you talk to God you’re religious, but if God talks to you, you’re psychotic. Needless to say, I was hesitant to tell anyone how I knew the things I sometimes did. I suppose anyone living long enough in isolation would learn to better hear the unheard and see the unseen. Though questioning my own sanity was by no means out of my constant consideration.

Given my Christian upbringing and that being a faith I still fundamentally maintained; one of theology’s most unsettled subjects in my opinion were the questions why God created or allowed certain humans to exist; contrasting God’s omniscience with our coexisting free will. Where was the separation between freedom, consequence, punishment, and fate (or more aptly,  the predestined will of God prepared beforehand)? Why did God allow- or furthermore essentially consent- lives such as Mao Zedong, Adolf Hitler, or the most wicked of criminals? However, this is given the assumption that God “grades” evil on a curve scale in the same fashion that we do. Which biblically, either argument could certainly be made; but on a smaller scale- and presently omitting any deistic arguments for a universe of sheer chance-  I had long wondered why God, already fully aware of the outcome of our freewill, chose the bring forth the potential souls that would end up doing such heinous things to others- or even to themselves, to kill themselves. Why create what doesn’t want to exist, or at least at the extent of its strength doesn’t end up being enough to meet its purpose, to “reach its destiny”- if there really even is one for each of us with half a grain of will.

I tugged on the blue rope to test the integrity of the knot, and placed it around my neck.

Which is all too rather ironic to even spend so much thought trying to grasp the indiscernible, likely much more from the oxymoronic “suicidal Christian”- which to me always sounded like the title of a book of satire. Furthermore, I wondered why God chose to grant my request that evening long ago on the stairwell. Lifestyle had driven me into liver failure and I remember the doctor taking me into the hallway to tell me that I could very likely die in this case. I had mixed feelings about it, because back then I didn’t want to die. I sat on the stairwell, a deep orange sunset shining through the window on my face, and I made a deal with God. I told Him I would do what He created me to do if He would not let me not die. And I spontaneously recovered. None of the doctors could explain why or how I recovered so rapidly, because *they’d* never seen it before; but I knew how. It wasn’t long until I deeply regretted this prayer- because that was *before* all that has transpired to this very moment years later, standing on the edge of the wall; because I never could have imagined the fires I would be tested or punished by, all that I would lose, all the burdens I would somehow gain- or how heavy it would all so quickly become to me. I didn’t know if perhaps it was indicative of God’s sense of humor or not, but I wouldn’t want to start any Blasphemous Rumours.

But it’s all just like that saying that the Universe gives you what you wanted at the absolute worst time, or when you don’t even want it anymore; only I had observed that the case seemed to be taking what you wanted, and giving it back only if you ever managed to not care about it being gone anymore. Because whatever your idol is; we most all have them. If only my fears were as easy to lose as the things that once gave me breath.

I stood,  feet on the edge, still looking at the lights below; doubting that I had the guts.

“My heart’s a graveyard, baby…” my phone rang with a text message notification.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s