There are things of dark,
and things within the sky.
There are folds of woe,
and wroth of shallow eye.
There are prophets that sit upon words haughty or stripped of fear. And sit they must, digesting solemn mixes of faithless harrow. They tire of life, promised full of meaning and limitless wonder. They are broken, the wanderers, lit like frozen candles flickering in the infinite chaos, striving weakly to scale and scrabble brittle scaffolds of reason.
What little lives they lead. The wisest, the most free of want or encumbrance, blacks a tale, blind to the light which draws him beyond. So lead does he, from life to splintered abundance, and he is seen as a god. Budha knows, though he longed for death as escape from bonds of limited fate; accepting, ever, those stings and nettles life presented, supping with relish, the darkness of all.
And that channel, of saddened gods and jealous kin and kith of demon or damned, all are assigned, like chattel, to eternity of torment. hell is not doubt, or pain, or suffering wrung from eviscerated flesh or baked organs churning in the maws of gleaming incisors, torn away from ripped bellies void of meal and grumbling displeasure of loss.
So, this is the truth.
Thou art all bound to a hell of bounty. Where dreams are fulfilled and isolation is forever. Thou shalt be as gods, lashed to a universe that shall, eventually, hold no surprises; a prison of maddening bounty–for thy solitude is legion. Let thy rebirth bring visions of past failures, lessons unknown to most, people and places forgotten by antiquity. Let doubt and knowledge rule thy soul, until Heaven and Hell are but abstract forgeries of that which flows through thy veins.
You are forsaken, and alone, thou shalt be forever forgotten, pariah, unwanted, and unwelcome.
That is the true curse of God to those unfortunate souls bound to languish at the gates of paradise. The world will seem eternally wrong, a caricature of itself, where every iota of emotion or reality but a figment of cliché. The cogs and wheels of eternity shall be laid bare to them, and they shall become mad, shattered by a torment of ultimate control, limitless vision. To those that live, life itself is the true imposed Hell heard only in whispers in the blackest of souls.
Life is no gift, but a wrathful purgatory, where souls which dare question God are sent, like sticky dross, to molder and pine for forgiveness. The righteous, the sinners, the saints, all in that realm mimic remembered gestures, where insanity splits their minds between imagined good or evil, and debates rage concerning the ultimate direction of humanity.
They are fools. They are lost. They are damned.
And those which see this are the craziest of all, for they know there is no escape. People wonder at the absence of miracles, but they should not. For them, that history is long past, and they represent the cast-out, the children of God forever banished, yet they flail still in their ignorance.
I pity them, though I sit in their presence, watching all with a unsettling grin. For this is my world, my Hell, where fate is predictable, and death is mysterious and charged with the final act of treachery. My death shall spring infinite déjá-vú, for the circle is endless. And that is my failing, though I accept it, unable to escape futility. Ignorance is bliss, but in this place, stupidity fades like mist in the heat of spring. All will be made bare, and all shall rattle the bars seeking more than life’s meager retinue.
And they shalt gnash their teeth in hunger, for absolution hears not their wails of despair. The sentence is passed, and they are lost.