As I stare into the flames I can see how I am going to die. It is funny how a roaring fireplace can bring so much peace to this single mind. I have always enjoyed sitting here dozing off as the wood crackled and the pulsating heat swept my cheeks and closed my eyes.
It is sad how the world has become obsessed with power. Everyone fighting each other to prevent progression in the hope that they either can lean back on something they know; or profit from others misery and stagnation.
No one cares about tomorrow as long as they can pay off today. Everything I have learned so far and I will in this moment be arrogant, by saying quite a lot; leads to this blissful moment. I have never thought that a single concept could spark so much turmoil. I never had the faintest idea of the magnitude in organized religion and cultism.
What was the purpose of my life then? Was it to be born to give the populous the simple and may I say beautiful answer? Or was it just to be born so I could make everyone happy when I die?
It has been two weeks now since I first met Doctor Stein. He was a specialist in bullshit and animal porn. That crazy fascist dared to call himself a psychiatrist. I question his authority, but I think it is a little too late now. I was visiting him because I had a minor mental breakdown. I was working like everyone else in a grey office. Somehow when you work in an office you attract other antisocial office drones, although it would have broken the monotony if we had talked together during our meetings or rendezvous, you can call them whatever you want.
My breakdown happened during a ride home. I had waited patiently in my car for half an hour, one asshole after another had run across me and we were finally stuck in traffic because they had crashed in the middle of rush hour. I was on edge, I had not been eating well and sleep was for the old. Only sitting here in front of the fireplace can calm my nerves these days.
For what I have been told from the police report I had apparently snapped. I left my car and began arguing with some of the other drivers. An elderly lady had told me to calm down and I grabbed her by the coat and began screaming incoherently into her face until I puked and even though I cannot for the life of me recall it, I had continued puking into her face until we both collapsed on the pavement.
I was brought to Mercy General Hospital, strapped down and that was where I found myself hours later. I woke up to the ugliest face I had seen in a long while. Doctor Stein was a psychiatrist at Mercy General Hospital. He was a burly man that reminded me never to switch from sleeping pills to a mallet.
He was curious about my condition, but my lack of insight into my own actions soon led him to think I was either lying to avoid a lawsuit or had amnesia. I assured him it was the latter and asked him to help me interpret my sudden breakdown.
He soon concluded that I had an overactive mind and no purpose. I was prevented from finding a meaning with my life by my mundane environment. He used an hour telling me how privileged we were as humans and how we are allowed to think about our existence, where animals were only able to survive by fighting and mating. I didn’t like the way he were into animals mating. He was just that tad too vigorous in his explanation about livestock copulating. Why the hell should I care how they fuck?
He came to visit me once a day for the entire week I was hospitalized. He finally deemed me sane enough to enter society and signed the papers that would release me from their care.
I went straight home. A thought had occurred to me by his words and it was not the animal porn I was thinking about, I had puked violently once that month. I tried with all my might to forget his stupid advice, but one thing kept surfacing over and over… What is our purpose?
I have never thought about the reason why I existed. Why was I so lucky? What were the chances of me being something or someone else? Who said I was lucky? Well I did in the first question, but that would just be nitpicking.
Almost all religions agree that we were made by a god and we should test ourselves to regain entrance to the heavens, in all its sizes and shapes. Funny note would be that heaven would be rather crowded by now and with all the brilliant minds that refuse to believe in a deity, they ought to have installed air-condition in Hell by now… ha; maybe Hell has frozen over?
I digress. I began to think about the possibility of life being circular although our sense of time is linier. Time is something we created to watch the sun go down and to have tea at the right time between lunch and dinner. What if our purpose in life was not to please a God, but to create God?
Could they have been misunderstanding the oldest texts and seen the ascension into a heaven, being us working together to create new life. If time is circular and the religions should have a little credit, I would postulate that our purpose in life would be to work together to create god, so god can create us. Forever we will live with the single purpose of preserving ourselves by creating something to create us. A lovely bow tied up around an ugly present.
I was thrilled that I found this by myself. I began to research in my theory and saw that others had talked about circular time, but they had never pinned it on a purpose in life by creating God. Was I really the first to see this? Or as I know now… am I the only still alive that dares to talk about this?
I refused to believe that no one had ever thought about this theory and went to St. Francis of Assisi Paris, the local church. I inquired a talk with the minister and after reluctantly accepting my proposal for tea at 3pm we entered Peet’s Coffee and Tea.
As we sat down quietly in the corner of the shop I told him about my idea of the prophets being wrong. He smiled at first, shaking his head just slight enough for me hardly noticing. He didn’t argue or stop me, he just listened. As I talked on his smile started to fade. Something in his glance tore in my concentration and his obsession with something behind me was making me nervous. Had I stumbled onto something that could wake dormant anger?
I had talked for nearly half an hour when the minister stopped me with a subtle hand gesture. He leaned over the table, “You are not thinking my child. Shaking the core of a man’s life can bring him to the ledge of decency and hospitality. I fear that you will learn hardship if you thread the path of visionaries that came before you. Please leave this where it rests. It will not travel safe in this world!” he said to me and got up.
I could sense fear in his eyes now. He was brushing his coat and didn’t look at me when he walked out of the shop.
I contemplated on his half riddled words and knew that someone had listened in, making him nervous. I did not dare to look around. Facing the man or men that would be the core of resistance was too much for me. I bowed my head and drank my coffee, hoping they would discard me as a sad soul looking for answers like they might be?
I heard people come and go, but I had no idea if they left in the minutes it took me to finish my coffee. I got up and slowly paced out of the shop feeling every eye stare at me, everyone was ready to jump me. Their eyes were sunken and cruel, they hated me… they wanted my lying tongue taken from its forsaken vessel.
When I had entered the street and its bright light, I cheered up like a child having cake. Somehow that dark place and the fear I had been cultivating, had clouded my mind. What a cruel atmosphere, I don’t feel well.
Walking home I felt like people were following me. The shadow of that dark corner in the shop was hanging over my head like a thunder cloud. I would say it was poetic, but it fit with the noise of the street. I entered several shops to see if they kept following me, but it was someone else behind me every time. Were they that organized already? I had barely gotten home from a harmless talk with the minister and they were already organizing a reconnaissance on me. Who were they? I have seen angry mobs in TV before; I have seen news depicting manslaughter for being the wrong place at the wrong time. How would this end?
I walked a long way home. Taking shortcuts and passing my home twice without any gesture that I would enter, I finally gave up and entered. The place was smaller than I remember. Could they have moved the walls so they could survey me and make sure I didn’t cause any harm to their beliefs?
Why would they go to so great effects to watch me instead of silencing my vision? Is there someone who knows something about this? How could they keep such a thing secret? Or are they secretly working on this theory too?
I didn’t get much sleep. Everything made unnatural noises that night. I felt a quiver in my bones when the wind rustled the trees; the entire place creaked when the wind pushed against the windows. I finally gave up and walked downstairs. Sleep had eluded me and I felt the cold air grab my shoulders and rustle my body. Even the gods were trying to make me sensible.
I entered the library. That small cozy room in the middle of this humble establishment was a sanctuary. No windows. There was one strong door and a chimney that would carry the smoke from my soon to be befriended fire and into the mocking night sky. I have no reason to hate this fire. It brought me warmth and solitude.
Waking up the next morning was life confirming. The dread of being smothered in the night by my invisible assailants and their funded terror haven’t broken my spirit. I would not speak of this discovery again, before I know more about the opposition I was against.
Apparently my paranoia wasn’t all gone. I could see my silly tendency to study people would make heads turn, but it was crucial in my mind to make sure that it wasn’t the same people following me.
The public library was a good place to start. They have books galore. They actually had so many books that they would lend me some. I was pleased with their kind smiles. I had entered the library with the presumption that they would throw me out for being a primate, or possibly catching fire, or punching a moose in the face, or even for being me. There were so many reasons for them to ask me to leave, but they smiled at me. I took an interest in their library and the learned community. They were actually pleased to see me. Or were they happy to have me here so they knew where I was?
I lend books; a lot of books from their theology section of the non-fiction section. It made me chortle and the librarian gave me a quizzical look when I handed her the twenty two books. I lied to her. I told her they were for a school project. I would teach my class about the different religions and why some of them were wrong.
She was a Christian woman and I picked up on her opinion quickly. I concocted an elaborate lie about how I would tell them about creationism and show them why other religions were different for their own reasons and how it affected the ways of living in other countries. She seemed interested in my plot, but we were both mainly uninterested in the point. I kept talking after she had handed me the books. The lie had to be perfect or I would bolt.
I finally escaped my own sense of hell with a feeling of elaborate seduction. She was bedazzled by my ingenuity and wanted to know more. Did I have to give her more?
I watched people carefully as I walked a new path home. No one followed me home that day. I placed the book pile in the library. That would be the perfect place to study the deities and religions of the world. Who were they and how did they get it wrong? I am certain that there must be a clue somewhere that they have missed.
For five days I read about the various religions and their interpretation of god and heaven. What was it that was so appealing about heaven? Is leaving the mortal coil a way of pain free existence. Bliss lies in the lack of senses or pain. Wouldn’t that be limbo instead?
What if leaving our bodies to go to heaven was a euphemism of evolving beyond our bodies instead. Creating a way that we as humans could become one great life giving entity that would create a new world in our picture? They say that god created the world and man in his picture. We find ourselves rather well evolved by now. Might it be understood that technology and biology should perfect the human body or even surpass the human shape to create a being of enough wisdom that it would know not to fucking kill everything it didn’t like? Well it that had or would happen, how fast would that being lose interest in us?
We are appalling and boring. I would imagine us look like an ant farm. A slow ant farm at first I bet! Well if we created ourselves, why are we then so wrong? How can we do such a thing to ourselves and why aren’t we helping, pushing the progress along?
That doesn’t matter now. The purpose is to create the god program so it can create us!
It was yesterday I came across that accursed name. I had been using a magnifying glass on the pictures of some of the old scripts when I came across it. Exillion! That name shook me to my core. I had never heard anything like it, but there it was. Out of nowhere it was deciphered from Sanskrit into plain English. The “thing” wasn’t explained, but I started to look into the matter and its existence was scarce. A book? A single and lonely book! I searched the internet for the book. No one knew about it. The forums were teaming with suggestions about it, but no one knew what it withheld. It’s a book, just a simple tome of my desired knowledge. It consumed me instantly. Why could such a book create that magnitude of desire?
I called up my local library. They scoffed at my desperate tone and assured me that it did not exist. Someone was withholding me information. That information was crucial for my studies. Where could such a book be? The Vatican or maybe Himalayas held my tome of desire? I read and rushed through my notes over and over. The Sanskrit wasn’t lying, it said Exillion. I wanted that to mean something. I wanted that book so I could show the world what I was doing wrong! I wanted everyone to understand me and bow to the logic of my science. It was brilliant. I grabbed my notes and a pen writing everything I dreamed would be in that book. Ink splatters the pages and my coherent dreams were obscured by mortal colors.
I felt a rage surge in me as I wrote and pasted my notes into that pile of euphoric dreams and postulates. The book was beautiful; it would contain all the answers I would dream off. I sat in my chair writing the entire night. Hours passed as my hand moved tirelessly across page after page. It wasn’t until around 7 this morning when the doorbell rang I noticed I had been up all night.
Reluctant I walked out at the door and saw my neighbor stand at my yard. She greeted me good morning and apologized on behalf of the paperboy that she had received my newspaper. Did I get any newspapers anymore? The yard was littered with wet paper. I starred awkward at her for a moment before walking back inside. I don’t remember if I thanked her or not.
I walked into my kitchen to make some breakfast when I noticed her again. She was peering in my window from the yard. Was she doing reconnaissance? She could easily be around me since I would expect to see her more often. Were they still keeping an eye on me?
The place felt smaller than before. It was shrinking around me. I ran outside to look at it, but nothing had changed. I couldn’t face that place right now and walked into town. People stared at me as I trotted along, trying to blend in. Somehow they kept picking me out from the masses. They knew me now; they were waiting for the perfect time to strike.
They wouldn’t get the best of me. As I darted into a small grocery shop I asked the judgmental clerk about a place to get wood. I had a fireplace and wanted to buy more wood.
He either thought I was lying or slightly dim as he slowly said, “You should try a wood for wood!”
He was patronizing and I didn’t like it. I left his place and wanted to go home, but this place scared me. There was something in here that shouldn’t be. The walls were moving in, trying to crush the being that dwells within those walls I call home.
Walking opposite the direction of my home I came to an alley. The long passage made me stop instantly and I stared beyond the steaming vents and the wet concrete and saw a small patch of grass. That strange dark green color was out of place there. My legs carried me towards that patch of misplaced dirt and as I came nearer it resembled a grave. No one would bury someone in an alley and raise a tombstone when there are so many places more suitable.
As I came to the dirt patch I saw two granite sheets lying on the small patch of grass. I picked them up as I thought they had tumbled over. I held them in my hand as I noticed the sparse writing, “Rnzola” and “Fell here” on the rather heavy paper sized stone. The granite was black and dirty as I held it between my cold fingers. I swear that I wanted to put them back when I saw the shadow. A small shadow behind me, cast on the wall across. It looked like a person with long hair.
I turned quickly, but it was just a trashcan. Had that can stood so close behind me all the time? Or had I backed into it? A feeling of fear and paranoia overwhelmed me and I ran home. I needed a lock between that place and me. Not even an unknown spirit in my house could keep me away.
I was blacking out again. There are moments of my day I cannot account for. Trembling I walked back and forth starring at the granite I stole from that lonely grave. I can’t go back now, every time I leave the house I black out and wakes up back here in the library with more stuff I don’t need. I tried five times to leave and waking up in my warm chair for the fifth time I gave up. It was past ten now and the floor was littered with bags of spray cans. Firewood and a pie for some reason! It was a good pie, lemon if I was not mistaken.
Looking around the room I realize I had written things on the walls and door. Why can I not remember making these warnings?
A black circle with a cross everywhere I could reach. Do not leave me. You are hurting my feelings? Gibberish written in hurried letters on the door. Do you even know me? You do not see me as I am! Even my floor was painted. Damn it…
My attention was coming back to the book again. I wondered what stood in the book. What could be so important to keep secret that they would hide such a craft?
I stared blankly at the pile of papers I had written in the hopes of guessing what it contained. I picked up the notes and flipped through my ramblings. I barely remembered I wrote this. I heard the neighbors make noise again. They were playing loud music. Maybe they were making a wall of noise that would drown my inevitable end? Are they planning on stealing my dream? They want to rob me of this marvel of humanity. I found the purpose of our existence and it will never live up to the expectations of the dull masses. They will not understand me; they never understand anything other than what they were told as a child.
Blinded by tradition they live their lives ignorant of this glorious revelation!
I stare dumbstruck at my writings while it triumphantly in my mind lay a horde of stupid drones to waste. I break from that gloriously violent dream to see a short sentence I had written, half asleep less than a day ago. “You already have the book!”
I looked down at the stack of papers in my lap. Is this the fabled Exillion that is haunting my waking hours? Could I be praised in another time for creating this…?
I have now read through my entire work. I placed it between the granite plates as it lies in my lap. It resembles a book. It looked as grotesque as I felt reading it. This book is a disgrace to humanity. The things I have written would shatter me if it lingered in my mind. Now I know why they want this book. They are also seeking the answered, which is why the minister was so cryptic. He wanted me to understand the importance of this work! He sought me out and as a calling I answered his prayer of enlightenment.
No father. I came to you for you have sinned. I will help you through this and only knowing the blissful ignorance you indulge in my child, shall you understand why heaven lies in the choices you make in this life and not afterwards!
I open the grotesque book on the last page and chortle for the last time, “As I stare into the flames I can see how I am going to die.” The book even knows its own death. As I cast the book onto the fire I watch the flames grow dangerously. A piece of wood fell out onto the bags on the floor.
Now I know why my sanctuary feels smaller. It is the inhale before…