Pray for me. I am busy praying for you.

Pray for me. I am busy praying for you. I am praying for you who mistreated me. This is something new. I used to fantasize about killing you, now I pray for you. Maybe it won’t change the world, but it is changing me.

I can’t go five minutes being around a new person or new people without finding so many ways in which I am being misunderstood and mistreated. People default to trying to figure out the power dynamics and assuming their appropriate roles. People often seem to see me as an easy target to lord themselves over, or perhaps an easy foe to overcome to make themselves feel better. I am praying for all of the ones I am sure to meet in the near future, as well as the ones I’ve known in the recent and distant past.

In my dreams I am trying to go back into my past and fix things and it is like I am trolling through a million alternate universes. I have this sinking feeling that if I were to go deep enough, my waking, physical body would die and my soul would indeed transmigrate to some reality that might somewhat resemble the one I used to live in. Except unless I had God has a guide, I would inevitably continue to spin through chaos, leaping from world to world, and most worlds and alternate universes would be hells compared to this one.

Hell in some ways may not seem to be as scary as the Church used to make it out to be, now that we’ve had Eastern religions give us the possibility that it isn’t completely absolute, but a timeless world outside of this one where we are recycled, which is its own kind of hell. But, perhaps hell is even more pernicious and terrifying than anything any priests and poets, even Dante and Milton, ever could have imagined.

My own special hell isn’t other people, but this life of endless encounters with people who don’t ever quite connect with me completely. Nobody I once knew is sending me Christmas cards and wondering how I am doing, because nobody I once knew ever got to know the real me. Now that I am letting the real me come forth in ever greater amounts, I can see just how hard it will be for me to ever connect with people in such a way that will make them want to come by my house for barbecue and beer and the game on a Sunday after Church.

I am not even that weird or strange. If you’ve bothered to read much of what I’ve written in the past several years, you can see just how boring and mundane I am. If anything, I would be the perfect friend because I am easy and agreeable to whatever people want to do as long as it isn’t sacrificing goats and dancing in a pentagram form late at night.

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