"You who questions souls, and you to whom souls must answer, do not cut off the soul of my son on my account. Let the strength of his childhood lead him to you, and the joy of his body stand him upright in your eyes. May he discern my prayer for him, and to whom it is uttered, and in what shame. I received the living waters and I held them in a stag
nant pool. I was taught but I did not teach. I was loved but I did not love. I weakened the name that spoke me, and I chased the light with my own understanding. Whisper in his ear. Direct him to a place of learning. Illuminate his child's belief in mightiness. Rescue him from those who want him with no soul, who have their channels in the bedrooms of the rich and poor, to draw children into death. Let him see me coming back. Allow us to bring forth our souls together to make a place for your name. If am too late, redeem my yearning in his heart, bless him with a soul that remembers you, that he may uncover it with careful husbandry. They who wish to devour him have grown powerful on my idleness. They have a number for him, a chain. Let him see them withered in the light of your name. Let him see their dead kingdom from the mountain of your word. Stand him up upon his soul, bless him with the truth of manhood."
Happy birthday Steven... my crown.
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“I began well, then, all of a sudden, something happened.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. After a few days; day in, day out, madness. A mild form of schizophrenia.”
“There are no mild forms of schizophrenia.”
“I don’t know what it’s called.”
“Maybe you should edit your book. It’s incomprehensible, like you.”
“I don’t have the energy for that. Plus, I hate my own footnotes. It’s something that happened in a moment of madness and inspiration, opposite to right now. Now is just a mild depression.”
“Maybe you’ll see her in Paradise.”
“I don’t want to see her in Paradise, I don’t want to know anymore about her. I’ve come to dislike her and her constant success. I was made for failure, that’s just me. I don’t love Louise anymore. I don’t love Africa anymore, the love is dead. That desire for strength and potency is over. It’s a bit of bitterness, a bit of sadness and a bit of frustration. Let them triumph and let me have my five minutes of peace and quiet.”
I didn’t meet Julia in a flourishing tropical garden or in a rainy cemetery. I met her in a train station. She looked like a Japanese cartoon. I think she was German.
“Are you a convert Muslim?”
“Now that’s a long and complicated story.”
“Those people are monsters.”
“And God?”
“What God?”
“And mercy?”
“What mercy?”
“I am a convert Muslim and I think your name is Julia.”
“Do you fast?”
“I try. No, I don’t”
“Do you pray?”
“Not really.”
“What kind of Muslim is that?”
“Spanish convert.”
“Sounds pathetic.”
“It’s nice to fantasize with Paradise when you actually believe in it.”
When I died and was purified by the fire, I met Julia in a flourishing tropical garden.
“Do you remember the fire?”
“No. Do you?”
“No. But I know I was in it.”
“Is there anyone besides us?”
“Not here.”
“Do you remember what happened in our previous existence?”
“Yes, I wrote a book about it that dragged me into hell.”
“But nobody read that.”
“God knew about it.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your husband in Paradise.”
“You look like a good husband.”
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