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Section 4 Entry 0001. Date: 2003 September 16 Tuesday.
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I found out. I found out exactly why I'm in Hell. And it's too much. I can't bear it. I won't claim to have lived a perfect life. I know I made errors. Given the chance to do it again, I wouldn't have taken the same path. But - to be here for this? It's not even a crime! The enormity of it is unbearable. So much senseless punishment for the tiniest of little errors.
I wish I could kill myself. Well, I could. It's been known to happen. But then you end up in one of the areas of the Old Quarter which is still functioning. So I have to endure the unendurable. Or try to.
Am I repentent? No! The malice of this vengeance makes me, rather, seething with rage. I would tear down Heaven if I could and skin the screaming angels and feed them to ... I can't find an image to match my rage.
Which is passing, even as I sit here, staring at the computer screen.
And the passing of my rage leaves me ... well ... empty. Desolate.
This is despair.
Section 4 Entry 0002. Date: 2003 September 17 Wednesday.
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I was sitting in the park today eating a stick of mud - you know, that special yellow mud, the stuff you eat if you're on the Interrupted Calories diet - when one of the Cold Ones went by.
I've seen them before, in the distance, tall and caped, stately, but never up close. This once glanced at me as he went by, and, for some reason, he Shared.
I was totally unprepared for this.
His mind was dark chaos flecked with red, like a bomb going off in a burning blast furnace. But it was also, at one and the same time, infinitely spacious, to the point where I was lost within its immensities, like a flea lost in a place of black marble.
There were, within his intellect, unimaginable complexities of multi-folded intelligence. The dark constellations of his databases held galactic clouds of knowing and being.
And he treated me, in passing - it took less than a second - to his scornful understanding of my own nature. And I saw myself, thanks to him, as a weak, incompetent mammal, part pig, part crocodile, inept, pitiful, a vessel of half-completed lusts, my hatreds shallow, my yearnings frivolous, my entire nature, vicious, corrupt.
I saw myself as a worthless greed-bladder, ready to sell my soul for a spoonful of sugar.
"It's not like that!" I protested.
But he was gone, sweeping past, leaving me with nothing but the shrivelled remnants of the rags of my own soul, the shreds of my self-esteem.
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