Though my back is bent over these great works, I ponder mostly about the nature of the Lord, my God.
Firstly, on the concerns of my being, which is, "Why am I alive? And, to what cause and effect does my existence have?". To this question, as I look to the Lord for answers, it appears that I was not born out of sheer coincidence. Though it might appear so, for no one was prepared for my birth, and even after being born, no one seemed to give much thought to me as an individual. For a long time, I was taken as a burden, an extra mouth to feed in a cruel world that devours all that pertain life.
Forgive me for turning to the Lord, therefore, for the world offered no answers. Forgive me from turning from philosophy as well, for though philosophy explores such questions, it is limited in that it is conjured out of reason or observation.
But who can reason the existence of God, for man can only reason to what pertains his mind. And who can observe the Lord, for the Lord is invisible to the naked eye. And so, reason and observation do not give rise to belief in the Lord, nor does philosophy encourage the exploration into such areas as theology.
But, why am I alive? Theology offers the answer that the Lord wants me to be alive, otherwise, I too would be held up in the land of the dead. But, why be alive at all? And why me, in particular? Why not someone else to carry on this burden of living? Why not someone better and more equipped for my role in life? Theology would offer the answer of, "For there is no one else who can fill my role, that was perfectly made by God, for me."
But then what about God, the creator of everything? If he is so wise and perfect, why did he create me, an imperfect creature? For all I do is create sadness, and pain, and hopelessness. And the only nourishment my soul has ever engulfed is sadness, and pain, and hopelessness. And if the world is hopeless indeed, why not bury my head in a bottle? Why not let my mind loose in the alternating state of hallucinogenics?
I have indulged in both, suckling on the illusions that grandiose hopelessness offers. "Be merry, have drink, roll a plant and smoke it. Are you lonely? Find a woman to lay beside you. Give yourself to all the pleasures this world offers. Do not deny yourself anything, for there is only hopelessness and haplessness in this world!"
And so, why am I here, alive as the Lord permits me? Is it to suffer for my sins, for all those women I hurt? Is it as an example, a deterrence and a case study to all those who might stray into the arms of darkness? For whom does my life benefit, Oh Lord, but for you and your goodness. Can my life ever amount to anything, if you yourself do not uphold me, Oh Silent One.
For my life to amount to anything, for it to carry any meaning, I have to be fully engrossed in you, my Lord. For there is not a thing that holds me to this world, now, except you my Father. For before, I placed my hope in my mother. And when she passed, the world-spirit became my mother, accosting and assaulting me just as my mother had before her.
And yet you took pity on me, Oh Father, and you called me to yourself on numerous occasions. I rejected you each time, for I thought the cold embrace of the world-spirit more enticing and warmer than you, Oh my Lord.
You constitute my life, Oh Kind One. For it is because you dwell in me, that I also have life. For, I live because it is not my will, but yours. And I suffer, not because it is my will, but because it is yours.
Does my life feel worth it in you? It very much does. It carries life and meaning and purpose. I write this here as a testament to your goodness, kind Father, and your mercy, good Lord. For, without you, the spasms of drink, and the chock-hold of hallucinogenics had dragged me into the underworld. And indeed, it was only those few breaths that were left in me that stood between my living and eternal damnation.
For I had already been damned. My name had been engraved in the book of death, and that, indeed, was my destination. And I knew it, for a thief does not commit a crime unless he knows it is wrong. I knew that my destination itself was the prison of hell, the place to languish for all the crimes, (in theology, sins), I had committed against your goodness, my Lovely One.
And yet, though I knew my destination, and the heavy sentence you carried against me, I did not ask that you take your punishment away from me. For I understand this; I deserved my punishment. I found it deserving, that for all my wrongs, against you and against others, that punishment be given for my crimes. I had, too often and for far too long, trodden upon this earth without justice imposed upon me. And who is more just than you, Oh Kind Master?
For you say, "But when I punish you, I will be just." And I knew that I would find more empathy in your gallows than in the palaces that line the shores of this world. For you are kind, Oh Good King, and the least of your servants dines far fancier than the greatest of kings. How better, then, shall you treat your prisoners, surpassing even the fairest of leaders. I knew that in death, I would at least elicit your sympathy towards me. That, though I was a sinner, you would grant me leniency if I pled guilty to all my crimes before you.
For I thought you an archaic God, my Lord. Never changing, always meticulous upon the rules and regulations given to us, your unfaithful and disobedient subjects. Forgive me, Oh Father, for I am unworthy of your kindness. For you are not a god created in my image, but a God in who's image I was made.
For, no evil god would create an unrepentant soul. As all the tyrants of this world, only complete submission would be tolerated, any opposition quickly quashed with violent force. But not you, Oh Graceful One, who allows us to speak out against your rules, and defile your earth, as though it were ours to give. And we do defile your earth, Father, we do.
For you love me, Oh Faithful One, and, in your grace and kindness, you care for me. For my soul is like water, flowing out without any clear direction. If the land is not tilted, or if the banks are not given direction, my soul becomes stagnant, Oh Father, and my life cannot be used, then, for any meaningful purpose.
But my life needs clear direction, my Lord, it requires guidance, my God. What produce can I give, or where can my life flow that it will be accepted, except in you. For my life's meaning to me has always been diminished. And many a time I have proposed the empty abyss of death as a more meaningful dwelling for my soul, hypnotised by the endless void into which many descend and never return.
For, unfortunately my Lord, my life has carried misery for me. When I was cast into this world, my mother did not want me. She took the time, always carefully, to remind me how her womb had been a curse and not a blessing to her. I was autistic, a slow child in all areas of learning and play, and my mother hit me for it.
She scolded and ripped my heart apart, biting me on several occasions and hitting me to the point of shedding my blood. She broke my heart, Oh Father, she scarred my soul. Because I developed late as a child, her wounds deeply impacted me. For I loved my mother, and I cared for her so.
But yet, though I can not deny that she loved me, as a mother loves a child, she broke my heart and my soul. For, how can a boy child grow if he is unloved by his mother? He becomes a nuisance for himself, and for those around him. She tormented me, Oh Father, and she employed my teachers to rough me up as well. I felt a prisoner in my infancy, and a criminal in my childhood.
But, Oh Sweet Silent One, you who watched on as the carpet of my life unrolled, what crime had I committed? What perverse thing had I done that be man-handled as I was? I asked myself several times as I aged, "What is my crime? That I should be unjustly treated so! What wrong did I commit?"
I came to the conclusion, my Father, a long time ago, that my crime had been that of bearing life in my body, and breath in my lungs. For, had I not been born, my mother would have never been disappointed in me. She would not have had to scold me, to beat me, to hate me and to blame me for all her pain and misery. I would have never become a scapegoat and, prayerfully, she would have been happier without me.
In my adulthood, I have found legitimate reason for the cessation of my life. "My life will end anyways, why not end it here?", "I've been a failure all my life, and I haven't done anything constructive and I have no one who'll legitimately miss me!" All my relationships with family and friends disintegrate, and I am left feeling alone and vulnerable, like a sole antelope before a hidden lioness.
And why not end my life, Father, why wait? My mother reassured me of my uselessness, and the world-spirit has shown you my barrenness. Why, Oh Father, would you sustain my life with the understanding that I have failed to bear fruit?
Surely there are those far more important than I! Who toil hard for the good of others, and those who are bastions for justice, and who provide aid and care to all those who need it! And surely, there are those who are worse than me, who steal and maim and kill and destroy. Lower your eyes upon me, Oh Silent One, and know that, surely, I am none of the above.
For you found me when I was wretched, causing havoc and inflicting pain upon all those who crossed my path. For what was I? I was a vagabond, a spiritual normad, but rather than look for food, I acted on the behest of my Mother, the world-spirit, to devour as many as I could. And devour I did.
For many cried to you, Oh God, and many wailed to you, of the failings of my actions, and the depravity of my mind. Many wailed, my God, many wailed. And I knew I would too. I knew the gravity of my actions. And though I pretended to not be moved by the afflictions I caused others, it caused me great pain and misery, that the only thing I seemed good at was to cause others pain and to inflict suffering.
Who, Oh Father, can vouch for my character before your mighty throne? Who can say that I am innocent? That these accusations are false, and that I have always been a humble and good soul. For all have left me, Oh Father, all have deserted me. The world-spirit sewed onto me a poisonous scorpion tail, and commanded me to poison and afflict as many as I could, and I dutifully followed.
For I had never felt the sweet embrace of love, nor indulged in the wonderful lake of kindness. I was a vagabond, never with one singular group for too long. I, Father, and no one else, failed. I failed. Myself, my heart, my soul, my mind and you, Oh Father, for though I have placed you last, you are the greatest. I cannot bring myself to visualise the pain I've caused, to you and to others.
My heart wails, Oh Father, just as it did that first day that my lungs swallowed cold air. My eyes have let the tears flow freely, as I remember all of the pain I have caused. To you, Oh Father of Kindness, for loving me in spite of my wrongs, in spite of my sins, in spite of the heartache I caused. To you, my Life, to you, Oh Father of Goodness, to you, my King, to you, my Lord. To you.
Please wipe my tears, Oh Father, please nurse my heart back to good health. I can understand, with as little understanding as I can master, the full extent of my wrongs. The actualisation of my failings, and the failure of the workings of my arms.
