I am drunk.
Is it bad to know the first line of something you are going to write long before you sit down to write it? Is it disingenuous? Does it make me somehow a pretentious phony? I hope so. Because I could never stand it if all the things in my brain I suspect to be true were actually true. I'd like to say it would all be too much, that I'd kill myself in despair—but I wouldn't.
Kill myself, that is. Despair has been a sweet and faithful nymph, an incalculable comfort on nights of simple and exquisite loneliness. You see, God made us—or rather we made us, because we are God. We once were all together, in absolute unity; no mailboxes, no distance or cars, no 'families', nor even births. Just One. We once were God, and we knew nothing of loneliness or despair. We knew nothing of passion's sweet embrace, for we knew nothing of arms nor, for that matter, did we know anything about using those arms for hate.
So, I would never kill myself, because this—everything—is exactly what I (We) wanted when We (I) chose to separate into a countless mass of fragments and thereby (as a mass) created space and time and, for the first time, created the potential for this gift we know as longing.
My longing is both acute, and infinite. It lies in isolation with me in my dark bedroom, while in a mysterious contradiction, it links me to the endlessness—the home of Me and You, and God.
Who on earth ever would believe that two martinis and three olives could constitute a sacrament?
Amen.
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