Thursday, January 26, 2006

The Walking Dead

It hurts less now, two days from the epiphany of pain. I am less sure of the pain of Hell (in the physical sense) because of it. Apart from the attention getting quality that massive, unavoidable red hot spikes driven into your body may have, it has, besides, a curious side effect. You forget your own existence. That which makes you human, that of relating with all your interconnected definitions, hopes, fears, and intentions, cannot even raise a collective frightened head out the the trench to which it fled. Pain of this sort is a private exchange between the torment and the one part of you so tormented. The self, so deeply in need of punishment for the crimes that that self employed throughout its life, needs to be "in on it" more than massive pain can allow. St. Clive lifts the shades (pun intended) by saying that, while Heaven is man saying "Thy will be done," Hell is God saying to man "Thy will be done." Hell becomes the utterly complete conviction of a man's thoughts and what he thought was devoid of Joy.

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