Dear Hades,
Write the truest sentence you know, Hemingway tells me.
Write the truest sentence I know …
I was driving home alone thinking about death or better yet, all the dead. My mind raced over their faces and I long to see them again. I wish they were still around so I could tell them so much about what they had missed. I wish I could bore them with all the stories I have read and get into a debate with them over all the insanity of the world, but at least I cannot.
They are gone, and I am still here.
The message a Zen Master told sticks out in my mind during the long turn to my house. You are not sad for the things you did not experience before you were born, he says to me, so why would you be sad for the things you’ll miss after you die? A fair point I admit to him, but I do not fear my death. So, what do I with the death others? I fear that.
I know death is inevitable to me. I know it far better than most because I have been so close to taking his hands more times than once. I have stared into his eyes laughing along with me at the joke. I do not fear him, but my mind does hopscotch over to the idea, the one thing I seem to dread the most … what if I died with words still caught in my throat? My last breath is with the pen in my hand, and my last thought before stepping over to the other side is, I’m not done. The story is not over yet; I have one more page to write.
It is a fear that runs deep in my mind for a while as I climb the steps to my apartment, hoping my neighbors keep their music down so I can write this letter, and find a note from the Reaper himself.
There is always another story to tell. One day you’ll tell it to the Lord.
And the fear which followed me up to my door dashes away like a cat caught in the light; gone from me forever. Gone from me and with it, it takes the dread.
I do not fear my death. I never have and I never will.
I open the door to dark feeling the watchful eyes of my roommate’s cat. He’s happy I’m home. He’s followed me around for a bit, tossing his furry body onto my bed and sit patiently behind as I weep into my hands. The faces of the Gone have become too heavy, and I break under the weight of it all. I have said farewell to far too many that I wish still here. The worst thing of it all is I know a few of them I’ll never see again.
I have spoken to my sister about this many times, how there is a solace in knowing people who are Believers and who have died because I have known I’ll see them again, but I find there is a deep sorrow for those who choose to walk away from the Lord. I can’t help but get this image in my mind of the Lord walking the halls of a museum weeping over those who did not come to Him.
Maybe, it is not the Lord in that image. The Gallery the Lost does not sit in Heaven but comfortably in my dreams because I hope the Lord does as I see in my vision. I do not know if He would, but the idea is nice, yes?
So, what I do with the people who are gone forever? How do I live knowing they could have changed their fate but the choice not too? There are so many great arguments not to believe in the Lord, and there are better ones to believe in Him but not everyone sees the light, and I find it hard to handle sometimes. I find myself lost with confusion with these people. I want to grab them by the shoulders scream and cry for them to change, to believe, but my words would fall to the ground like stone begin toss.
I stand there in awe of it all.
And then the words being penned to this page changes to the conversation I had with an Atheist friend of mine. We talked about what death was like, and he explained to me what the thought it was. Simply put he believe the death was like cutting the light off or closing book; life ends, and there is nothing else. It is gone in a flash like shutting the computer off.
And because this was in my younger days I said the most cliché thing to him I could have; how sad to believe that way?
But now as I write this I see my argument has changed greatly, and I wish I could step back into time and say something different. I wish the conversation were just behind a closed door, and I could open it to be there again, but it is not. So, all I can do is write it here. I can have a conversation with you that we never had before.
The Atheist believe that life is about the ‘now.' What is going on right now, is all that matters. It is our duty to experience our mere existence to the fullness. We should try to enjoy every moment of our lives and be damn about the consequences because they do not matter. Sure, his action could be written in history, ripple through the ages but what does he care? He does not know if they will or will not; for he will not be around to see them.
I’m not saying, and he would agree, that he should be immoral. No, I believe he can be moral and should be so because no one wants to be around an immoral person. We remove ourselves from liars, thieves, and anyone we deem harmful to our lives. For him, it would be because he could not be able to enjoy life if he was immoral, mostly because he would be an outcast to everyone or end up in jail or dead. The mere fact he must be moral to enjoy the moment to the fullness is a part of his ideology.
A selfish ideology I would argue.
Forget the times he cheated on his lovers, they never found out. Or the times he lied to friends, they don’t know. Or all the drugs he lied about taking, it didn’t hurt anyone. Is a lie, a lie, if it is never brought to the light? It is a lie if we never compare it to the truth?
He would argue those were mistakes, and I’m sure they were, but they were fun. He did enjoy them at least for the moment. He lived his life to the truest point of ideology; the ‘now’ is all that matters.
What a freeing way to live. What great way to live. Do whatever action you like within the rules of society because they do not matter when you die. Sure, they could matter after your death to other people but not to you. The light is off. The book is close. Life is gone.
How I envy that belief sometimes. How I wish I could believe none of my actions will matter in the end. My actions could be judged by you and the world. Yes, but I laughed that judgment. Be damn with what people think they are better than my actions, for they are no better than the worst of my sins. No, I do not care to be judged by mere mortals. My actions may be written in history but they ripple through Heaven, and what a far greater responsibly that is than your damnation of me.
I believe one day I’ll stand in front of the Lord to be judged accordingly of my wrong doing and all the good I did. I will stand there looking back on my life with Him as he asks me … why? Why did you do this? Why did you do that? Was it worth it?
I wonder if the people I know who not Believers have moved from this life stood in front Lord to and was asked the same thing. Sometimes, I hope so. Other times, I hope not. I’m not sure it matters really because I’m still left with this question of what to do with this sorrow.
The writer in me wishes to tell their stories.
My heart wishes to weep for them.
My mind wishes they knew better, so I didn’t have to deal with this emotions. The only thing I had to deal with was missing the dead. I would miss them until I saw them again. I could find solace somewhere in all of it. To quote Shakespeare “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” because we know we’ll see each other again, but that is not the case with some of my friends. I’m left standing with broken memories of them and tear-filled eyes.
I guess the only I can do is take enjoyment in the time I had them. I will tell their stories. I will cry over them and cures them for their foolishness because at least I got to know them. At least, their actions matter to me.
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