Gods Do Dream Too

Stop killing me. I am already dead. Do not you see? Nothing left of me but a white pale corpse. The tips of my fingers left hand gently dabbling in the soft warm puddle of blood beside me. I am all alone except for this incessant annoying humming of an insomniac mosquito. I do not know what it keeps it awake till now. I do not know what torments it. Dreams? Night’s solitude? Or possibly my eyes? I hated it with all my heart. I wanted to kill it; crush it between my fingers. Yet I felt too lazy to lift my hand to search the air for a sleepless mad mosquito. Let it hum for all I care! Let it suffer alone for all I care! I have got enough suffering of my own! I have other bigger things to think about other than figuring out a new modern technique to squash a stupid mosquito in my palm. I will kill it with my indifference. I am not playing that old-aged game again with a crazy insect. I have my own drama to attend to. Though I am the only actor to take part in it, I have to rehearse! I have to know my role at heart. I have to give out an extraordinary performance. I have to dazzle myself. I am the only actor and this sweet tender indifference of all the things surrounding my existence is my stage. This world I am living or it is living in me. It really does not matter anymore. We are both so indifferent to each other.

The mosquito is gone. Did I win? It does not matter. I am just happy that it’s gone, that it does not buzz within my ear shot anymore. It’s dark. I can feel the weigh of night softly brushing against my skin. I have always loved the dark. It’s like the friend I have not had at day. I take my showers in the dark. It’s not that I hate to look at my naked body in the light. On the contrary, I feel more naked in the dark. I feel its nebulous arm around my waist seducing me to other worlds, darker worlds; worlds in which I shed the last remnants of my human nudity. In the dark, I feel so full with my nakedness, my reality. I also like to write in the dark. I am actually writing in the dark at the moment. If it’s not for the darkness I would not have been able to write anything now. I do not even know if I am supposed to be writing this now or not. All I know is that there is a massive impetus making me want to let this cry out. The cry of a man, human being, tender soft substance.

I once knew a god or he knew me. I once had a god or he had me. Does it matter which way it goes? It might matter to you but not to me. It’s just “it once”. Nothing more. To know or have a god is to love him, to take care of him, and above all to fear him. We think that…… I would rather stick to the “I”. I think that I feared god because I loved him and did not want to upset or make him angry with me. That is not true though. Now I realize that all my fears were just one big pompous lie. I just wanted to lie to god about my love for him. I faked love, without my knowing, to win out something out of nothing. I wanted to trick god. I would show him how much I loved and feared him so that I book myself a place in heaven, in nowhere, as if I were waiting for a heavenly key to fall down from heaven as a reassurance, a prize for all my anguish and agony on earth. I just yearned for something tangible in my hand to believe. I was scared that god might stab me in the back, outfox me, and lock me out of his endless kingdom. I knew that nothing would drop from the sky no matter how long I begged, no matter how long I knelt on my four, no matter how long I prostrated with face in the mud in front of god. I consoled myself with the idea that this key might be kept for me as a final surprise in my grave. I liked that fantastical illusion. I would have clung to any illusion anyway. As much fantastical as it might sound, it’s frightening. I remembered the white shroud, straitjacket, that I would tightly wrapped in when placed in that dark desolate hole like a mother placing her child in its crib. I will be enrobed in my last legacies on earth. How would I look like? I do not want to imagine myself imprisoned in a shroud. The mere idea of it suffocates me, drains my lungs of air. Would I be able to tear it up? Would I be able to move my limbs to break free of that white cloth? If I am too lazy to smash a mosquito, how would I manage to rip off a white rag? A cold thick drop of sweat tricked down my spine. I hate constraints. I hate prisons on earth and under earth. I just want to be free, free of everything. Are there in anymore tricks in the bag still? Would god tolerate one more trick? He must if he believes that he is a real true god. A knife! Bury me with a knife in my hand.

I used to love a god. I do not know if I still love him or not anymore. I just know that once day I loved him so much, like a child would love his most cherished toy. Did he love me back? I do not know. God, do you love me? Do you hate me? Do you remember me? Do you miss me? Do you need anything from me? He would not answer. He might be sleeping or busy with something else. I will try to call him out later.

Almost 8 years back at this very time I could have been praying alone in the dark bathed in my tears. I would pray in the dark too. Did those tears mean anything back then? If they meant anything, it was that I loved god so much. Alone in the dark with extended hands my soft murmurs drowning the frenzied beats of my sunken heart. Alone in the dark I stood with hot tears furrowing deep warm crevices on my cheeks just for a sad colourless flower to grow in. Alone in the dark I stood with my heart tethered to the moon because that’s how I always imagined god, a huge white wing endlessly hovering across the moon. Where did that god go? No idea and I do not care. Did he desert me? Did I desert him? Well, I would say that he deserted me and he would say that I am the one that deserted him. We will keep blaming each other, accusing each other. God vs. man. I am sick and tired of this joke.

Again, where is he? Is he that heap of flesh and blood nailed to the cross? He cannot be that one. That image of bloodied flesh is repulsive. I refuse to kneel before a helpless mass streaking with blood. Where was he before the crucifixion? What kept him away? I do not want other people to die for me. Is he an apparition? If he is so, then I am a sorcerer. I will conjure up my own apparitions.
Where is he? Where am I? One of us has got to perish. We two cannot live together in the same person, the same world. There must be a gentle separation. Each of us should find his way.

You know what I did? I drowned god in a tear. In one single cold tear. A tear of a human is fiercer than a raging flood. I shattered him with a heartbeat. With one single heartbeat. A heartbeat of a human is more thunderous than the eruption of a volcano. He lies dead in my palm like an autumnal dry leaf.

My eyes are still moist. Tears are what make me human. Just to feel I am a man, a free man. My heart is still bleeding. The knife I paid for my freedom is stuck in there. I will never pull it out. I will keep it there, a living sign of my divine suffering. I will push it deeper into my heart with every step I take down the road of my freedom. I want to feel its heat surging through my heart to branch out to all my body like an electrical bush rose just to make me feel even if for once that I am a human being with a tormented yet living heart. I will march down the road, a free man, with a knife stuck into my heart dripping with lyrics not yet spoken.

Stop killing me! I am already dead. Do not you see? With a gentle yawn, God awakens, a handful of ashes in his hand. Gods do dream too.