In our last life together, I was the one with the body that you wanted, and you were the one with the mind that thought it knew everything.  Last time we were together, you were the one who thought too much, and fashioned a Jungian dissertation out of everything you saw, and never touched a soul.  In our last life together, I was like you are now, preferring to mudwrestle life, grabbing the day by the face, and throwing it down, always pumped and ready for the next confrontation, waiting on all comers.  I didn't sweat the details—I wasn't the one with OCD then—and I knew what was important.  Then. 

You loved me, in that last life; not this way round, the way it is this time.  I always wondered then what was wrong with you; not just 'cause you loved me, I got over that.  No, I wondered why you kept coming back for more.  And it wasn't just me you were fascinated with; you really did seem to prefer the drains in life instead of the fountains.  I think you wanted to be the loser, you seemed uncomfortable with winning.  I wondered why you rejected every chance you ever had for happiness, why you always went for the empty hope—why you always came for me, even when you knew I wasn't there.  I admit, I liked the attention, who wouldn't?  But I wondered what rewards you could possibly be getting in return for throwing everything away in persuit of me.  And I never knew. 

Then—maybe to teach me a lesson—our souls decided they wanted to trade places next time 'round.  So here we are.  This time, I am the 'know it all' and you are the perfect body. 

God does not exist.  The final perfection is the union of all things; of mind with flesh, and rock with star.  The final perfection is the resolution of all things impossible to resolve; quiet will join calamity, hope will become indistinguishable from doubt, peace and truth will no longer differ from despair and war, faith will blush deceitful, and trust will marry betrayal.  The final perfection is the union of life and death, and the return of the summer breeze to the gentle breath of God. 

God does not exist, not the way we know.  If there ever was a god, it was everything in one single beautiful point.  It knew no pain or desire.  It experienced neither the joy of emergence from long darkness into light, nor did it know the relief, from day's brightness, of retreat into sacred night.  It did not know the distress of seperation from a beloved, nor did it know the anguish of an inescapable suffering.  Tragedy and loss did not then exist; neither did joy or compassion. 

We here do not suffer because we did anything wrong.  We are not awarded joy's exultation for anything we did right.  We exist as infinite variations of that single beautiful point.  All that we see and hear, everything we taste and feel; all the things we know, and even knowing itself are each precious fragments of that single origin.  If there ever was a God, It is everything.