I look upon that which I believe I have created and I cringe.

How could I have created my suffering and pain? I certainly would not have chosen to create this. I see so much misery and hate in the world. There is no way I would have created THAT.

When I am told that we are all One and God is Love and Love is all there is, I cringe.

There must be something other than Love that has created suffering and pain and loss and despair. And it acts through me because what I feel most times is not Love. Or I must be something other than Love . . .

Then I am told that what I am feeling isn't true. That is is all an illusion. But I feel this misery and I feel pain and I get diseased . . . And others do heinous things to eachother that I would never create and do not condone. I see this misery and I feel angry and hateful towards those who I am told are my brothers and sisters. It is they who should cringe.

I need to create Heaven on Earth, I am told. I really don't know how, so I look to others to see how they do it. They seem to love much better than I . I guess I could pretend. To act like it until I feel it . . .but that seems like living a lie. How can a lie lead me to the Truth? I don't understand but I take this option as it seems like the best possible choice.

I begin to say I am in Love with everything, and Love everyone . . .I do wonderful things and feel good for a year and a day, but deep inside my pain continues. And I feel myself growing very, very old.

I really try. My words may say what at times I do not feel, but know I must repeat them.

My mind betrays me. Is there one thing in which I can trust??

This something "other" can only be one of two things, I surmise . . either there is a force at work that can effectively oppose Love (and acts through me and others), or I effectively oppose Love.

The former creates a fear in me and a vulnerability that makes me cry out for help and protection. With it I am always afraid, but perhaps I can strike a bargain, considering . . . .

This thought, although frightening, is infinitely desirable and I valiantly defend myself from accepting the other option.

It incites such deathly fear in me so as to make me plead for my soul, as I would then honestly agree that I am guilty of this enormity. I would have to admit that I cannot seem to stop myself. I am a wretched creature in the grips of something bigger than I.

Each and every day I pray for deliverance and for strength . . .but I feel this force. . . of my own perhaps willing (but most certainly coerced) wants and what I need to survive . . .

This force is always knocking at my door, wanting inside.

I feel so tired of the struggle, so weary of the loss of all my loves . . . that are ripped from my hands with each savage act. The effort to keep the door closed from the force of this onslaught has taken the last of my energy.

It wants in so it can make itself comfortable. It only asks for its comfort, it seems. Perhaps I should let it come inside? Perhaps then I could rest, if even for a little while . . . But it seems like I don't know how to even do that right, as rest never comes.

I know one thing. The lock on the door seems to be broken. I don't like to look at or through the door often, but there are times when I cannot help myself and see that awful door flapping on its hinges like a tongue wagging between toothless gums.

And I think, "What would God think of me?" And I cringe because, to my surprise, "it" was in there all the time.

I am weary of cringing. I am deathly tired and the cold wind created by the wildly flapping door has chilled me to my bones.

Now that it is here, all is quiet. I lay down on the floor of this still, barren room and wait for the feeling of its hand on me. I am sure it will happen any moment.

How will it happen? When will be "my time?" Will it hurt? Where will I go?

"Do your worst," I think.

I don't care. It is what it is.

So I lay there for what seems an eternity, thinking little . . sometimes not thinking at all. In my mind time goes by . . .or does it?

I really don't care. What do I know?

And I do not to care even more deeply.

Bleak despair takes too much of my already depleted energy, I cannot maintain the images that led me to this dark place. I feel nothing. It is a sensation of the past, feeling is. It is a fleeting thought, one of which I have long since tired.

The room, or space, or whatever it is, is dark and barren, still. And I am here, wherever here is, still.

Motionless, incomplete, uncaring . . still.

When will I leave this place? The question continues to haunt me.

There is nothing left now, no body to Love, no pain or purpose, none to lose and none to gain, no pleasures to maintain, no God to disappoint. I remain.

Stillness surrounds me . . .all that remains of my thoughts and dreams, my arguments and convolutions, my loves and my very last breath, is this.

It remains. "Unless it does not," I think with my last thought into the stillness. I get no answer.

The true remains of the day, remains there, still.