She stood there alone, crying, as they lay my body to rest. Underneath all the wet earth, in whose bosoms my body was thrust in, her soft tears will never reach me, no matter how much I plead the Almighty otherwise. No one to console her from the loss she just witnessed, she unleashed unto her hands the waters of humanity, the very hands that were covering her grief stricken face from exposing the contours of unimaginable pain. Amidst that sad panoramic insanity, when the clouds eclipsed the promise given to Noah, everyone around her saw the banality of happiness in the shade of sadness. For the very last time she threw a kiss at me and bid me farewell.
I am dead. Funny though, I always imagined it differently. I should have seen it coming, but being blind prevented me from anticipating many things. Looking back at it I now know that I died too young, too early, though I longed for it for the longest time. But the longest time does not compare to eternity, which is all I have left now to keep me company. In this space, a space of pain, I find the rubbles of myself. Like an ancient temple that once was the place of worship, I conduct my requiem and establish my mausoleum.
Quietly, as I attempt to capture the mood of the moment, when disposition and reflection pour over me, like a cathartic waterfall, in whose very drop I reclaim a moment I once thought was lost to forgetfulness forever, I wish to penetrate deeply into these memories that have been resuscitating over the past few hours. I seek to travel further into this universe, yet unknown to me to find a meaning, a very good reason as to why I am dead. As I am looking into this emporium of emotions, which I seek to silence with my words and sentences, I say to myself that this enterprise must be like an adagietto, a very calm, captivating flux of motion, whose sounds, whose very existence must overcome the limitations of space and time in order for me to surmount the short comings written words posses, in order to depict a worthy picture of the persona behind these shared symbols transmitted through a language over a vast distance of space and time.
What, you thought only the living can write? Heck, the best writers were the deadest among us!
As long as I can remember I wanted to be a hero, a someone to whom other people could look up to and expect to be saved from the madness and contingency of life. With eyes wide open I would lie on my bed, for hours endlessly dreaming vividly about the possibilities herohood could offer to someone like me. Fame and fortune, endeavors and never ending adventures; story tellers making up tales of my glorious actions. Each night, before I would give all the power to slumber, to carry me off to distant lands yet untouched by the hands of rapid mechanization and unsoiled by trite post-modern rituals, my untamed imagination would lift me up to grand new worlds. Silently, covered in tears of fervent zeal of devotion and a slight touch of desperation, I would ask G-d to allow me to be the savior this world so passionately cries for. As if not to hurt my feelings and callously remind me that the savior has already come once and a second epoch was something composed in weary minds, the silence I encountered enumerated the same poignant evocations I knew all along.
Being alone, the fondest memories of life torment me like an unfathomable storm. It ravages through the landscape of my immortal soul, slowly, as it whirls and wrecks havoc across the plane, claiming its victims, one at a time, I am unable to find a shelter and no seclusion to retreat to, in order to repose for one long moment in all those who I cannot see again.
Cruelty is not something that many humans actively strife for. But as if nature itself responded to an Oedipian plea, the innate talent for which humans are blessed with reminds me just how desperately we are in dire need for someone to save us from our own selves. Even the best of us are prone to fall prey to the inner dimensions left unexplored, where the silence and the chasms scare us from digging into that monster that masters our capacity for compassion and leaves us wondering why. I for one was a victim of my own lack of compassion.
I did not mean to be so rough, but sometimes my rage takes to me to places I otherwise would not dare set my feet on, an environment so alien and unwelcoming that it takes the edge of me and allows me, for a slim, unimportant moment to forget the tears I shed long ago for the sake of love. So, to feel better and not to fight it any longer, I had to use my knuckles on the stranger I never had a chance to make my beloved brother.
Like a tender lamb led to the slaughter house, he was rushed off to the hospital the moment my fists met his jaw and left a permanent reminder of how ferocious and bestial humans can be. The blood he gushed unto the pavement blended well with the coldness and loneliness this road has come to represent. The crimson liquid, in where all the secrets of life can be uprooted from, annotated better than any word the disillusion and apparent lack of coherent meaning that encounter produced. The scarlet blotches of a paltry being announced profanely to all those who bore testament to what occurred the demeaning failure of Adam and Eve.
It shouldn’t have come to this now that I am reflecting about it. The conflict in speech should have been left at that. But like all things in speech, human satisfaction demanded palpable actions. Not to disappoint this invitation from my humanness that placid, docile object of human rejection became my actualization of my blueprint and design. Like a sweet lover, I accepted the advances of my suitor and unabashedly reinvented that inculpable bystander, who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Like a vibrant butterfly, about to be injected with excruciating, painful venom by a hungry spider, who nefariously does not allow its victim the pleasure of death prior to consumption, but instead decides to feast on the flesh of its victim, while the adrenaline still rushes through the arteries and veins, I did not allow for my weaker and outmatched opponent the chance to tug his tail and run away, a choice I would have committed myself to, if I were forced to into a similar situation where I to face an antagonist twice my seize. But I did not even allow him to extricate himself from this terrible situation. My appetite for destruction outlasted my better half’s pleas for peace, serenity and friendship in that eternal tug of war. Like an avalanche, I surmounted and circumscribed his natural longing for air.
My life has always been a struggle, an unrecorded battle, a fight, one after another, an everlasting strife. Being born among the company of a war, an actual conflict that took away one life too many, that took million lives from a generation, whose very spirit has since then been soaked in the blood of the innocent and pure, my eyes were forced to bear witness to the never ending suffering of humanity, an awareness instilled in me since my very birth.
Visceral landscapes and sounds, lifelike, as if right in front of me, yet, like paintings, sealed off in their frames, forever captured, a minute to a viewer, an eternity to the painter, the hunter of prime moments, uneventful to most of his contemporaries, but grand enough, too salient not to be immortalized in one scene, an altar paying tribute to nature. But whatever they may be, the lifeless bodies that lay all across the bombed homes and destroyed streets caused me for many years nightmare after nightmare, urinated underpants and bed sheets, and helpless attempts from my parents to overcome this fatal illogic.
The thought of them, an image too dark and too remorseful to even harness enough strength to describe, is always lurking quietly in my mind. For the all the faults I find in existence, from human cruelty to injustice, there are always my parents whom I am beyond exception thankful. Though they share their flaws with every member of humankind, these vices are so marginal that they are no match for all the goodness that resides within their beings. For all the things I might have lacked so far in my life, for which my parents blame themselves for, their love for their children was more than I could have ever asked for. No amount of money will ever replace this bond I have with them, even death cannot stop it. Just thinking of them stirs tears from my eyes and a burst of emotions to be exuded over the expressions of my face and of my entire body. And regrets start to evaporate out of me and prone lamentations arise…
…that I couldn’t spend my life till their last breath. And though deep down I know that the agony of their death has been spared from me, and my eyes wouldn’t need to look at their lifeless bodies, the very bodies that mantled me from pain and sorrow, I have missed ripe moments to make many more memories from which I could derive many pleasures which suffering could never drown in its’ river of surrender. I was robbed from feeling the most intense love a person could ever encounter. The love for one’s parents, till the very end.
So, what is it like to be dead you may wonder. Similar to slumber, though lacking in its sweetness and warmth, and additionally lacking in tranquility, being dead is not so bad, if you discount not being able to wake up and realize that the muteness of the mind, the all enveloping silence it resonates fades away with the glimmering of the morning hour and a smiling sun to shake you wide aware for a brand new day. Breathing is not a problem, for when you are dead; you are no longer concerned with breathing, for your soul is no longer restricted in the body and instead floats freely to places possible only in thought.
So what is it like to be dead? Simple, being dead is just like being alive. It stinks! When you were alive you missed being alone and when you are dead you miss being with people. Just like being alive you are never satisfied. Always searching. Always looking. But never finding. A drawn out path that you did not sketch. Just like life, death is thrown upon you and there is nothing you can do. Only accepting it. And even if you do that, the bitterness is always present, reminding you how powerless you truly are.
Having G-d in my soul prevents me from sleeping. I am always awake. So to free myself from insomnia I must rid myself from G-d. Or is it thinking? Or a combination of both, or even the admixture of none of the above? Something keeps me awake and I must emancipate myself from that something, for if I don’t sleep, I cannot believe and think.
But who needs G-d when you are dead? G-d is only useful when you are alive! The dead do not proclaim G-d’s words, the living only do. But in my current predicament I am in need of a G-d more than ever only to lessen the burden of infinite silence.
According to the tales written, about the only selfless being, who was born untouched, unsoiled and pure, by whose death the world was finally allowed to find peace and redemption, the dead were as blessed as the living. Lazarus, the dearest of a brother to sisters, who wept and mourned his passing, found favor in the sight of the Christ, for they adorned the memory of their departed brother with sweet tears of sadness, which crowned and exalted the heart and soul of the chosen one to make an example for all those who love as much as those two sisters. To him, the dead needed a savior as much as they living, not to be spared from hell, but so they could find solace and closure at the thought of leaving behind a world, hostile and vicious, cruel enough to allow two sisters to shed irresolvable tears of pain and despair. The savior not as a figure who prevents people from entering hell and lifts them to heaven, but a savior that gives rest, to all of us, who are afraid of leaving behind our memories to those destined to remembrance. If I had that elusive ability, the power of faith, my soul would not be haunted for those who are left behind, ordained to care and nourish for my memories. My lack of belief inhibits my ability to have faith in them to pass on my memory and never let me die. Instead, alone, I decry the very elements that are outside my powers. So I continue to persist in this unknown existence, a repetition of life.
As she stood there, bewildered and hysterical, knowing not what to do, almost like a helpless infant, the only thing she knew well was to crawl on all fours and pray. As if prayer would have made me into a second Lazarus. Once you are dead, you are dead! No matter how much you weep and suffer, the departed are the departed! And though you like to give profound meaning to our passing through pompous visions that only reiterate how foolish we really have become and then dare to claim that you saw our faces on a piece of burned toast, at the end you will discover for your selves that the tales narrated about the resurrected are only that. Hell, you cannot even hear us, let alone speak for us, for if you could you would hear our mocking laughter and gossip about your moronic personage and actions!
Before she stood there alone, crying to the fullest of her hearts’ content at the sight of my lifeless body being buried into mother Earth, I was able to make her smile with the least of effort. And now, with even less effort, I make her cry. For a while at least. She was all that separated me from the madness that ensured so seemingly without any effort. She was my beloved, my EVERYTHING! It was so overwhelming that the mere thought of her being desired by someone else and the flattery that ensures would indeed instill in her a motif for infidelity, I would lose all my will power and give my heart over to the demons stalking me unremittingly. Now with my body dropped underneath the sunshine, I am bound to witness what pricks will make the most of my absence. I can glimpse at it already:
“My heart is broken, stricken with ill grief.
She has finally revealed what has been known to me all time long.
To her, I was never the object of desire and want.
Rather, I have been the futile materialization of innocent hopes and dreams, long perished underneath all the tears and pains of unreachable heights. To transpire her foolish heart, she disguised me as a her knight in shinning armor, her benevolent and compassionate rescuer, who would lift her up and take her with him to sweet places she could only dream off. I am a someone, an anyone, or at least when I was with her. Now, that her dreams have shattered and she no longer feels the need for fantasy and fairy tales, I am a no one, unimportant, insignificant to the continuation of her existence. I was worthy when I had purpose in her eyes. But now, ever since I abandoned her dreams for the sake of my own, though I cordially reminded her countless times that there was never a dream of hers I had internalized, she still thought it useful to infiltrate my heart with all the heinous remarks associated with wickedness and hatred. I quietly accepted her cold, cruel remarks, which left me hurt and wounded. I wish there was a way for me to reach, to express to her that I am sorry for having ran off when she needed me the most, but that I was immature and unwilling, even weak to carry her load with me, since the burden of carrying my own was already too much of a struggle assigned to me by my contingent birth. Yet, words cannot reconcile a determent void left behind. The chasm that has given birth to this new menacing demon mantis, this harpy, with her monstrous black wings gliding quietly among my thoughts ever since that silent phone conversation, and stalking me as its perpetual prey, until I shall be no more. But I do not know anymore. I love her and the thought of her with someone else agonizes me. I swear, I can see it already, so clearly, how she, just out of the shower, after a passionate encounter with her new special and chosen one, imbued her life giver with the necessary seeds to bless this cursed world a new offspring to mess with, is being wrapped with a while towel by her new savior, while her wet, black hair drips drops of water still coalesced with a light touch of shampoo, in her quickening rush to leave enough room and time for her dear lover to shower, before departing for work. I can feel the sex she had with him.”
To lover her, I ask myself yet again, what was the purpose of this strange adventure? Was it for me to feel alive? Was it for me to obtain meaning? Was the aim happiness? Because if the options were all the ground for my undertaking, then I have failed miserably, for none of them were able to be bloomed. If anything, more so than I like to admit, I did not feel alive, for I was still meaningless and the unhappiest existence around. I am very perplexed. Why did I choose to lover her? Was it my choice at all? The conceded tone in my proclamations! Was I ever in control of my emotion? Is anyone ever in control?
Can beauty ever shine on ugliness? That was always one of the questions of my mind. Reading through the small collections of poetry of that famous Bohemian poet, who so easily detailed the outlines of an encaged panther beautifully, I remained startled to what extremes we fashion an aesthetic to please all the sense besides the right one, the one which could permeate all the diversions of our lonesome existence and raise us higher, further, beyond all the masquerades and lies we fashion, to justify a grand narrative, so complex and juvenile, stripped of dignity and any worth, devoid of human rational and eloquence, if any ever existed ever, that I never found a satisfying account important enough to enable me to seize the moment and cease to ponder any loner on questions unassailable to the great majority of the living, who in their unattainable quest for beauty dipped themselves in ugliness, so as to shout their transformation from ugliness to true and hideous disgust.
I wandered though life absent minded; only discovering late, too late, that it was the lack of serious and deep reflection that caused my dislike for life. Prior to my ahistorical condition, the world seemed so vain, useless. But now, when a distinct richness envelops me, to the point where I can pick up a pen and freely float through dimensions and write down an account of my life, I understand that it is not the world, but the people who reside in this world that make this place seem redundant. As I am growing among these feelings, whose purpose I still do not comprehend, I find myself happy for once. I am not sure as to why it is so, but must there always be this obsessive hunger for knowing? Can I not once refuse this Socratic charm?
Dear LORD G-d, blessed are You, mercifully I ask Your
Judgment to be, for tonight, in front of You, the greatest
sinner is attempting to have a word with You.
Heavenly Father, Creator of All, whose love I always yearn for,
Whose arms I wish to rest unto, in Whose Words I seek
shelter, it is to You, oh LORD G-d that I turn to.
And though my heart is still full of doubt and mockery,
And my mind seeks to discourage me, I will fight
to muster the courage not to fall victim to my own self.
Holy One, Most High One, who hears all human sorrow
and cries, to You I want to return to.
Regardless of how I lacked of You, it was for You I longed.
When you look deep down into me, surely You shall
witness that it was for You I looked for.
I ask for strength from You, graceful LORD, to
enrich me with courage and strength before
this onslaught. I ask for faith and peace of mind.
Free from slavery and addiction, free from affliction.
I ask You to please remove me from this prison
and renew me in Your presence.
Success comes from the LORD, mercy from the LORD,
to You, oh my G-d I turn to.
Amen.
A glimmer of light shines upon my soul. Awakening some sort of tranquility among this all consuming chaos. As I lie all alone, here on my bed, sleepless yet again for the x amount of time, looking back at all my life’s moments, secluded and weary, my silent and fervent prayers are still unanswered. As I look unto my ceiling in the dire hopes that right now the beautiful hands of the Holy One will caress and comfort me, I long intensely for her touch. Maybe all this time, my way at looking at things and people was wrong, too romantic and hopeful. Maybe, just maybe a little cynicism would have spared me all these pangs and thunderous echoes of my crying heart.
Yet I wonder, to no amazement end, what the whole point of suffering is. What possible purpose does suffering function for?
Among Human Laugther
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