I would be incredibly hurt if anyone ever called me the Antichrist, but I suppose there are pieces of me that are antichristlike. I would sooner seek out a comfortable afternoon grilling meat and drinking beer than spend the time on a street corner telling people about Jesus or down at the soup kitchen helping the poor. Sometimes, I really want to believe that most of what Jesus said wasn’t written down and passed along correctly, and the hell that he spoke of was more like the hell understood in Eastern religions–the hell of death and rebirth–the cycle of maya, the karmic wheel, etc. Jesus was trying to save me from that kind of hell, not an all-out eternal damnation for having lived more like the rich guy and less like Lazarus.
Am I too vain and full of myself at times, when I read some of the better things I’ve written, and want to take too much credit for those words–though I know deep down in my heart that anything I’ve written which really helps another human being must have come from God.
I am quick to seek out beer instead of prayer.
I am quick to anger, and slow to forgiveness.
I am possessive of my books, and at times, I catch myself worshiping them as if they were deities themselves, capable of transforming me.
I am more concerned with the morrow than I ever thought I would be–thinking more and more that my savings account, especially as it pertains to the future of my son, takes precedence over a life spend making nothing and helping others.
I may spend a lot of time dwelling on my own foibles and imperfections–some would say I am a narcissist–but at least it keeps me removed from being too hypocritical and judgmental of others, because Lord knows when my attention turns away from myself and how I should be getting better, I inevitably become this hypercritical asshole of others, as if I am somehow more virtuous than my brethren, though Lord knows I am far from that particular stage.
I do try to read and admire the writing of a lot of other people scattered across the web, and do random searches and web scavenger hunts for various faces and names of strangers who have died or who suffer, and I pray for them, and I pray to God that God will be easy on so many of them who lived and died in states of helplessness–they really knew not what they did, and I can’t really bring myself to craft an eternal–forever-forever-hell for even the sorriest humans, who with some cosmic rehabilitation program could/should eventually become just as decent and virtuous as me, which is not to say a whole lot, but I mean to say at least not prone to killing and hurting others consciously. I consider myself most days to be doing good when my debts and trespasses are cancelled out perfectly by my good deeds, and I am running at about a zero balance overall in terms of karmic credit. Which is to say, I am far from receiving a 100% score of righteous and pious perfection, but at least I am able to pull myself out again (and again) from the red, where I often land after I do some bit of sinning–some awful crisis of anger or lust or pride or what have you.
Truth be told, if anyone ever called me the Antichrist, they would have hardly known me. I haven’t lusted and grasped after power quite like I properly should have to be able to claim such a title. I sometimes wonder just how many people who are known entities did finally, in a state of desperation one night, cry out to the devil and offer up their soul for a bit of extra fame and luxurious living. That would be the thing to know. It seems like too many celebrities and notables end up having it all go wrong for them in the end, or they end up showing us that it was never really going that well to begin with. But, I mean, how do you end up like a magnificent voice like the guy from Boston or the guy from Soundgarden and finally let the drugs and demons win in the end? What of Robin Williams? Sure, these folks had extenuating circumstances, illnesses, addictions, pains, sorrows, etc. But, so do so many other people across the face of the planet who live and suffer and do not let the suicide demon get them in the end. Go read a New York tabloid and see just how many rich folks are jumping from high story buildings all the time. They jump a lot. People don’t want to go so tragically unless they’ve determined that life has dealt or has been dealing them an especially terrifically bad hand. You don’t draw a conclusion like that unless you’ve seen a promised land that looks a lot more magnificent than the one that most of us get to see. What I mean to say is that someone like Amy Winehouse tasted a kind of glory, as did Kurt Cobain, or your anonymous hedge fund manager who jumped last week–they tasted something so high and wonderful, and then had to come back to a reality that was so low and abysmal in comparison. And, as such, they must have figured that in death, hell couldn’t possibly be that much worse, or, heaven would be the chance to be back up as high as high could get again. Either way, the picture looked pretty good compared to going on and living. But, what if suicide just dumps you right back into this world? Wouldn’t that be for many of us, especially those who can’t stand this world, a much more difficult kind of hell to face than one full of a bunch of bats and shit?
Therefore, the hell that awaits you when you die unless you find your way properly to Christ (none of that fake Christian shit that those hypocritical assholes are pushing in the Bible belt, mind you) is a hell to be feared and avoided at all costs–the hell of living yet another normal, average, plain life stuck in this reality, as it is. You won’t come back as another pop singer if you die hard on drugs or suicide, but you will come back as another schmuck trying to survive in the service industry or at an office somewhere. What could be a worse hell for Kurt Cobain or Amy Winehouse than to return to this world to discover they are the most middling of middle class, suburban children, destined to live out lives working for a gray, shallow company that provides modest gains on the comfort and quality of human life, and respectable dividends and returns for its shareholders, but nothing too sexy or extraordinary?
For me, though, perhaps the hell that awaits me is one where I have almost all of my memory wiped with the exception of whatever I am able to secret away in tiny pockets of invisible nothingness, and then I am made to live the exact same life I just lived…again..like Groundhog Day, except with almost no recollection of what I did right, or wrong in the previous life, just my collection of karmic rights and wrongs, debts and debtors…with a shallow, sullen patient sort of hope that maybe I did just enough good to outweigh the balance and help push me into not ignoring CP, making fun of MB, making fun of my little bro, etc.