Well, as the pantsless piggy said, “that’s all, folks!”
Of course, nothing is ever really over, right? There’s always some continuation of the story because humanity and the Powers are so goddamn bored. I’m convinced that a great number of the world’s atrocities and calamities have started with one or more people being bored. Boredom should be a crime. If you’re convicted of it more than once, you ought to have your head dunked in the Styx and then maybe you’ll mind your foolishness.
Anyway, I’m writing all of this to say I give up until, inevitably, the Powers get bored and fuck with me again. That’s been my whole life: a series of minor to catastrophic cluster fucks born from people so bored they start thinking with what’s in between their legs rather than what’s rattling around in the jabber box on top of their heads.
In the case of the Powers, I suspect they are irritated by me, yet at the same time have no concern for me at all. They are in their houses, windows well-lit, and I am out here in the dark streets. But the fabric of the universe reverberates with that irritation, scattering upon me a million star points of aggravation and frustration. It’s rarely anything devastating–I am fortunate to have been smart enough not to mortally offend. Rather, it’s always getting caught in traffic, always losing things, the dropped screw that rolls a mile away, the emptiness, the million-million little things that bear up in the day, causing you to crack at night when it’s quiet and you realize, for the hundredth time that day, that you are alone. That there is no one in the entire world who really cares if you live or die. That there is no being corporeal or otherwise who will be there to bless your benighted soul when it leaves your heaving carcass.
Finally, finally I am admitting defeat, that there is nothing out there in the quiet universe for me, that I put the nails in my coffin long ago and now what awaits is the second death where I will go to the jaws of a crocodile and irritate no more.
Last week, I screamed at the universe at the top of my lungs. Leave me alone! Don’t help me! Don’t hurt me! I’ll figure it out on my own.
And suddenly, a huge peace descends upon me because I am not interesting or relevant to the universe or any of its luminous dignitaries. I am on my own, to forge whatever path I can.
As I sit here thinking, I can’t help but feel disillusioned and dystheistic. For sure, I believe in Powers, but now I wonder: do they have my best interests at heart at any point? We have to admit the Powers have their own agendas, agendas that may not be delayed (thus the tsunami swallows the land, for heaven’s sake). They are like any other living being. But at some point, a person like me thinks that they are, perhaps, more often than not in the way of agendas.
Not only that, but I have given away so much of myself for free in the hopes of reciprocation and adulation that I suppose I have reduced myself to no value at all. So here I am gathering what little dignity I have left and I will not share it. It’s mine. It belongs to my new life.
The Powers are not interested in me at all. Rather, I am the speck in their eye and the Powers do not have good plans for the specks in their eye. I am a mere useless blip on the radar, a minor aberration in a heartbeat that only the hypochondriac notices.
Which is why I’ve become such a dystheist. I suspect the Powers’ motives and have lost much of my trust in them. I’ve lost trust in lots of things. The problem of evil was never a problem for me–I’ve always known that the Powers aren’t omnibenevolent, nor can they be trusted to have our best interests at heart all the time. Rather, I’m starting to suspect a vein of deliberate malice in the Powers, beyond the tricksters, even. This frustrates me because there are still Powers I remember who are still the spokes in my wheels. I guess we could say the sun will always shine in darkness (else it’s not the sun), but it’s not pleasant to think about.
I don’t know why I wrote this entry. I guess I want to let people know where I stand. Not that there’s anyone who cares about what I say. I have a tendency to drive people to crime–to boredom. Out of concern for their heads, people leave me alone. Until I stop being such an insufferable bore, my only friend will be my collie, my imagination, and the circle of acquaintances who pretend to care about my existence.
You see, I have no reason to remain here on earth save for the love of a dog. Thankfully, a dog is exempt from the pernicious crime of being bored. That is, a dog could be out of its skull with me, and there will be no cosmic judge to condemn it to being dunked in the Styx. That would be such a sad thing to see! A bold, Borzoi head dipping into the Styx, and probably coming out vandalized like an urban tortoise shell.
I have no reason to remain here on earth. There is nothing here that’s of much interest. I have, over and over again, committed the crime of being bored. As the old saying goes, “surely I am doomed”. The strange thing is, none of these thoughts come from depression, or suicidal fantasies. Nor do they come from the tail end of a dextromethorphan dose, although I’ve had enough in the past several days to become paranoid. . . . My problem is ennui. It’s not even world-weary ennui. It is just a no-bricks-please ennui. I am quite dented as it is.
So no, I won’t kill myself. In fact, as I sit here thinking about it more, I’m not going to hurt myself because that would please the benches. You all put me here. You’re going to have to deal with me until my number’s up and my head goes under. I may be out here in the dark street with the profligates, the atheists, and whoever else doesn’t live in this village, but I have myself, my dog, and an unpleasant lesson to keep me company.
We so often tell the stories of newbies, and of devouts in beautiful service to their Powers. We never tell stories like mine, because they are unfortunate truths. All of you out there–few of you will end up like me, but many of you will, to a certain degree, find doors slammed in your face. The inconvenient truth in a polytheistic world is there is no certainty of anything. Nothing truly revolves around anything else, and relationships are dynamic. One day you’re trying to get yourself together, the next day you’ve finally accomplished it and there’s nowhere to go. There are reasons why in some cultures the Powers could be legitimately abandoned, or struck out from memory. . . and there’s a reason why there are people like me in the world
I’m not saying this is my last blog entry like I have in the past. I am so damned bored there’s no telling when or if I’ll return, no telling when I’ll feel like making a statement no one cares about again. Nor is there any telling what the future holds, or what lights may shine or go out, or what things my collie and I may see to report back on. There is no telling if a door may one day open again, or if the universe moves my execution date up, or if I decide to jump off my third-story balcony after all.
Instead of saying goodbye, I’m going to say “see you later”, because if I can’t be decisive, then I will at least be spiteful.