Weaker moments

Maybe only out of ignorance would a human detest a perfect being and his perfect plan.

Let us depart from my reproach and your ambiguous hints. Let us discuss and decide, and I hope to replace my ignorance with unshaken confidence. Take my weakness as a bargaining advantage, as I’m desperately looking to negotiate.

I will never understand you, until I understand natural disasters and unearned punishments. Because unless you assure me that my misery would not be just another natural disaster, I have no faith in your goodness and no respect for your twisted plan.

If I died either out of misery, or as a result of a natural disaster, both scenarios would fit perfectly with your perfect plan.

I reach the same conclusion in your presence and your absence. But in my weaker moments, I look to the sky and I pray.

Please, let your mercy come as a natural disaster this instant. Bury me in your flood. Cleanse the world of me. Cleanse my memory of the knowledge that I once was.

Advertisements

Is there anything out there that I cannot enjoy?

How can I justify a greed for the unknown?

Well, it combines two misfortunes: ignorance and deprivation.

 

Deprivation is something I am very familiar with. But to know that there is some joy, some essence of life, that exists but I am not aware of, kills me. I want to be close enough to know what exists, but far enough to suffer alone without humiliation.

 

What of the times that have passed? The joys that I was forbidden to enjoy by my ignorance, and other natural causes, and that are no longer accessible. Maybe my fault was, and still is, settling for the least amount necessary of everything. Maybe if you have lived as long as I have without reforming into a normal person then you have no hope; it is too late and requires too much input for the little output a man like me could produce.

 

Is there any value to a malfunctioning hand watch? It does not tick when other hand watches do. It has its own time that represents nothing outside of that handwatch’s realm. It has no handles to modify the time, or to make it tick. It knows that other hand watches tick, and it knows its time is different than theirs. Isn’t every new second in that watch’s corrupt timing an ultimate punishment? another second of misery to a pointless past. In enduring those never-ending seconds, until the battery runs out, could it be called patient? Brave?

If it lived because it feared death, and endured because it feared running away, what would that make it?