how is God in His perfection (and, importantly, mercy) capable of making someone so flawed and unsustainable? how does the existence of one so imperfect (that the description becomes risibly understated) not irk Him?
the one ‘positive’ in all these is that I am now too small, worth too little, to ever be disappointed, to ever think that I am receiving less than my desert; too insubstantial for my words and protestations to find – or deserve – volume. the one virtuous cousin of shame is acquiescence. each uneventful hour is a bonus; I cherish it furtively with the jealous grasp of an imposter – but even silence is fitful and temporary. even the consistency of nullity is too soothing a punishment. the world’s only fitting response to me is an interminable, palpable, stabbing crescendo of rejection/expungement. this must be what Hell is.
Hell is, probably, also a marked path, paved with fire, with a pitchfork to one’s back. exams are looming; even the indulgent respite of mourning isn’t open to one.