Once again the world has lulled me into a false sense of security and pulled the rug out from beneath me. It was short-lived, though, my sense of security, too short to forget what falling on my ass was like.
I seriously just considered the possibility that I could be in Hell. This is not just because it is "Dead Week." This morning I was reading Sarte's No Exit, an Existentialist play in which the characters make for an interesting & creepy case study.
They create their own hell, at least that is what I've interpreted thus far after, you know, the first 10 pages. Then I began having creepy thoughts. The characters seemed to demand hell. They ask about torture chambers etc.
But, the tricky thing about Hell is in the anticipation. A slow Hell is far more torturous than the expected. Which is probably why i've grown so accustomed to expecting the worse. No surprises that way. No deceivingly pleasant pink embers inevitably turning red. Like my wine and meat, I say give it to me red!
In the play, the characters torture each other and themselves (Man v. self much?). This is mostly accomplished by fixating on comforts that have been denied such as a toothbrush, mirror, or a means of suicide like the statue on the mantle. One character, Garcin, notices that he cannot blink and is forced to endure daylight at all hours, he never gets a break, though, I think that if he hadn't been so concerned with figuring out his torture, he might not have realized this.
Once the characters realize that all they can do is interact and endure their self-torture, the become stagnant. They are void of Hope. The absence of Hope is despair. By this, I suspect at least, that one cannot find Hope in Hell.
Fortunately, I still have Hope, though it is fading. The world—perpetually—lulls me into a false sense of security. I grow comfortable and hopeful. I walk through a peaceful field only to realize that as I stop to inhale the sweet air, that I stand not on grass, but on snakes. What an unstable surface! Nasty, too.
Then again, maybe this is my Hell after all.
Back in my St. Thomas days, I had a delightful Psych 101 professor interject "you can't trust anyone or anything in life. You must go on thinking that your heart will be broken," during his lecture about emotion.
The scariest realization of the day is that I've grown so used to Hell and torture that the goodness, happiness and joy in the world are now my new torture. Mostly because they can be stripped from me. And I'd rather expect their removal, than fear it. So my soul remains cold.
You are much too young to be so depressed my daughter. If you're going to take a trip to the city of Despair, make it a short one. Concentrate on gratitude—gratefulness for anything and everything. Make a list, blog about that. Life is supposed to be hard (fallen) and that's why we must live by faith. It's the only healthy way God has left open to us that actaully works regardless of the circumstances. By the way, my senior drama project was producing and acting in that same play. The less you reate of Sarte, the better in my opinion. The guy adds a new shade to the color black. Remember, you're a Myrick and we don't give up. We may bleed a lot, but we don't give up. My deal with God is simple. I'll give up on Him the day he gives up on me. And, of course, that won't ever happen, will it? Praying for your emotional well being. Don't forget to listen to the Happiness hour tomorrow at noon. Love Dad.
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