I am going to die never knowing anything at all about why I was put here on this earth

I am going to die never knowing anything at all about why I was put here on this earth. I am going to die with a firm and certain knowledge that there is more to reality than this physical plane of being, but a frustrating impasse that really hasn’t been breached since my little brother died. I don’t ride my bike in the old neighborhood to remember the girl who moved down here with me. I am more than happy to forget her completely. I ride my bike down that way to piggy-back on old memories back to the year my little brother died. To try to access something of the fading, fleeting fire that once burned so brightly–a sure crusade to get in touch with him, to reclaim the past, to repair the fork in reality that sent me to this alternate universe.

Now, things are most complicated. I would never want to leave behind my little son, even if I were assured that his sweet soul would still be made manifest in a happy, healthy child who got to live a long, lovely life with perfect parents. My son is the source of a great, surprising love that seems to be the only bright light that might outshine the darkness that came to stay in 1999.

However, it’s certainly not a case of my little son taking the place of my little brother. It’s a matter of a great love trying to outshine the darkness of an endless-seeming sorrow. Which means, I still miss my little brother every single day.

I am angry and frustrated that we don’t get more of an understanding of what happens to us when we die. I am most contemptuous of those who would accept any pat answer unquestioningly, be they an atheist or a Christian. If we are reincarnated, then this, too, is an atrocious thing–to be forced back into a world where we don’t have any specific memories of our past lives, of our greater existence. We’re just sent back again and again to repeat the same damn mistakes, if reincarnation is a thing.

I’m not mad at God. I don’t even know what that means. If God is who God is, then being mad at God would be like being mad at the sun for shining so bright, being so hot–what are you going to do about it? Or, being mad at death–yes, it’s not fair and it’s no fun, but what can you, a helpless soul, do about it? What I’m frustrated and weary about is the fact that I have been unable to find the kind of peace, friendship and community I so desperately long to have. There are 7 billion people on this earth, and I can’t seem to make friends. Sure, my wife and my son and extended family are people I call my friends, but I’m talking about a person I can call up and go have a beer with, or watch a football game, or go camping with our families, or just sit out on the back porch and talk about what it all means.

There are too many days where this so-called reality seems most unreal for this very reason.

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