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I imagine you asking, "If only he'd let god in. If only he'd open his heart to the boundless source of eternal love, to the mystery, to forgiveness, to ecstatic peace, to immaculate regard... to being known through and through, recognized by, held close by, returned, reborn. Then, surely, he must see truth and in seeing, believe and in believing, finally rest."
And I imagine telling you, "I have thrown myself from precipices that give angels vertigo- leaped up from bonfires of faith and fallen past such abyssal heights that make the distance between despair and exaltation less than a breath. I have felt The Blood, I've supped from the table of delights. I've seen the promised land, unspoiled, ever perfected. I've been complete, held in grace's regard, aligned and locked in to a divine plan."
"But," you say.
"But," I say, "The simple yoke of being is sandpaper on eyeballs. The bare, mute, writhing, undeniable fact of existence is utter madness. No flavors, trappings, or scenery can quite obscure the absurdity, no emotional striptease, no matter how sensual and vague, can quite mask the stench of decay. I've won, I've won the grand prize. It isn't enough. You underestimate my appetite. Hell is other people: I've made myself a granary of strangers, a menagerie of hungers, an insatiable bounty. Transcendence? A one night stand. Lust disguised as virtue, but, you people do love your costumes, after all."
Silence, then, "Return him to storage. Indefinitely. Spin up the next one."
Curtain.
And I imagine telling you, "I have thrown myself from precipices that give angels vertigo- leaped up from bonfires of faith and fallen past such abyssal heights that make the distance between despair and exaltation less than a breath. I have felt The Blood, I've supped from the table of delights. I've seen the promised land, unspoiled, ever perfected. I've been complete, held in grace's regard, aligned and locked in to a divine plan."
"But," you say.
"But," I say, "The simple yoke of being is sandpaper on eyeballs. The bare, mute, writhing, undeniable fact of existence is utter madness. No flavors, trappings, or scenery can quite obscure the absurdity, no emotional striptease, no matter how sensual and vague, can quite mask the stench of decay. I've won, I've won the grand prize. It isn't enough. You underestimate my appetite. Hell is other people: I've made myself a granary of strangers, a menagerie of hungers, an insatiable bounty. Transcendence? A one night stand. Lust disguised as virtue, but, you people do love your costumes, after all."
Silence, then, "Return him to storage. Indefinitely. Spin up the next one."
Curtain.