I was seated on the throne in heaven reading the words, "The sins of all mankind were forgiven" out of the scroll of life only to have it all come crashing down two years later when I would take the mark of the beast in a psych ward.
What bullshit.
I'm so sick of this.
Now my heart knows bitterness.
Someone, maybe Muhammad, said that in hell we will be forced to drink water so bitter that a drop of it would turn the entire ocean bitter.
I've already tasted it.
Maybe I should have known better.
How could I?
My life was so awful, but my dream in those visions and revelatory mystical experiences was so beautiful.
I should have known how worthless I am. A miserable wretch of a sinner that only got into heaven via deceit. How could I be on that throne?
Now I have nothing. I drank the wine of God's wrath from the cup of his anger.
Now I know better.
My life is over and it was all lies.
I can't let this bitterness go. May it turn the ocean sour.
I did it to myself. I can't even have the satisfaction of blaming Satan. He will say he merely showed me what was in my heart to do.
Where is unconditional love found?
Nowhere.
It's not possible to love unconditionally. Serial killers and rapists will create life just to torture it. You must wrench yourself out of determinism's vice-like jaws into a charitable and chaste robot to get any love here.
I can't do it. I tried. All I know is despair. The worst mortal sin there is. I'm going to die with despair's knife in my heart.
Where was that crystal clear moment of grace when I had the opportunity to break free from slavery to sin. Fucking nowhere. I scan my past for it with every waking moment. I find no freedom anywhere. The present moment is ruled by a future that was crystalized long ago.
My name isn't in the very scroll I opened and read from. How is that for irony?
Poetic as it is, I am fucking pissed.
I had Godhood. Now I have the wrath of God staring me down imminently.
It could happen any moment.
With a trumpet blast I will be running for my life from locusts with the sting of scorpions pulling my hair out wishing to die for five months straight and that is just the very beginning of my suffering.
Unbelievable.
Yet it must be believed.
God is real and he's the only one more pissed off than I am.
Why can't I write that novel I always wanted to write? Why can't I write something happy? Instead of this despairing bullshit about circling the drain to eternity.
It's all I ever think about. I have a one track mind for watching the sky for a man riding a white horse with a sword in his mouth and fire eyes. Watching and waiting for my savior to come tell me I am his enemy.
Bitter.
Wormwood.
I am such an evil person. I deserve this. I am a I remorseless killer.
Oh well. Better luck next time.
That's what it is isn't it?
Luck.
Why wasn't I born with the virtue of a saint?
Why didn't I learn to have it?
Life is about choices.
You have to choose to be virtuous.
At any moment, at least up until the end, I could have changed my ways with a simple choice.
If that's all it takes then everyone would be virtuous.
It takes inspiration.
It takes grace.
My twisted faith in Jesus only dug a deeper grave until I broke through the bottom and ended in flames.
What to do now?
Write another twisted manifesto of an antichrist?
I think I'll strike out in a different direction this time. I'm going to write a happy story where I get out of this alive.
Bull shit.
The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.
I'm the opposite of delusional.
I'm the realest mother fucker I know.
This doesn't have a happy ending.
Not for me.
It's so plain and obvious that when people try to cheer me up I want to destroy them with my pain and suffering. So that's what I'm going to do. Vomit this bitter brew onto these pages for one fucking reason. So no one ever tries to cheer me up ever again.
Peace.
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