Do not read this letter, pt. II

To the one brave enough to step out into the night,

If you have not yet read pt. I of this letter, please do so here — otherwise, the contents of the following correspondence will appear incoherent.

If you did read pt. I, you’ll recall that we left off just as you were slipping on your winter boots and “stepping out into the night.” As you do, the cold washes over you in an instant, sending bone-chilling shivers up and down the whole of your being. The sidewalks are totally covered in snow — three to four inches at least, and the flakes are beginning to fall harder. 

As you walk, the storm intensifies. You flip on a flashlight, but it does little good. The wind howls, angrier now than before, as if it sought to deter your endeavor. But try as it may, no force of nature can quench the fire now ablaze inside of your heart—a fire stoked by nothing but the invincible power of love. This kind of love, which at present propels you dauntlessly through this storm is not, however, romantic, nor filial nor platonic. No! — this kind of love is radical, irrational and utterly absurd. This kind of love, no half-decent therapist or life coach would ever prescribe, because it is antithetical to the whole of your biological complexion. This kind of love, it says: to hell with biology! To hell with science! To hell with reason! To hell with that selfish materialism that infects so much of modern life (and no, I don’t speak of consumerism)! This kind of love refuses modernity, refuses wealth and innovation, refuses society and all of its wicked conventions and laughs in the face of that clinician who prescribed unbridled self-satisfaction as the key to happiness! Finally, this kind of love rejects that which is finite, and in embracing all of humankind — most especially that poor woman, stranded somewhere in this godforsaken blizzard — becomes infinite, eternal — this kind of love, it cannot die! Truly, He said to you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of His, you did for Him!

Then, barely audible above the shrieking wind, you hear her. “H…help…help me…HELP ME! You hurry down a back alleyway, but her voice only grows fainter; soon to be overtaken by the wind entirely. You’ve begun to lose track of time. “How long has it been? Forty-five minutes? An hour? Two?” Not only that, but you’ve become rather disoriented — the snow obscures left from right, up from down, this way from that way. A slight panic begins to set in; you try to suppress it, but it rises, it rises, oh, how it rises!     

The blizzard worsens, but the flame inside your heart, kindled by your most sacred love not for self, but for another, it yet flickers. You cling to this last bit of warmth, beseeching it to light the way, to bring you to her. You search entryways, alleyways, benches, bus stops, but to no avail. Soon, nervously retracing your steps (since filled in by snow) and glancing around in search of familiar scenery (of which there is none—the blizzard obscures all), you resign to the fact that you’ve lost your way. Accordingly, that flame which hitherto raged falters, and perceiving the situation to be hopeless, and your search for the poor woman a futile one, you stumble, reach out a hand to catch yourself, then decide against it, and collapse into the snow. Your heart goes cold. Shivering all over, but caring not for your wretched condition, you slip out of lucidity and into a semi-conscious, dreamlike state.

In this state, you dream that you are God, looking upon a universe devoid of love. Bored, you decide to take the form of a man, and in visiting earth, you encounter an individual who has staked their entire life on the belief that radical love is the only force which has the power to transcend death and, in doing so, bring meaning to life. And you feel sad, because you realize that this person is you, and that this universe devoid of love is your universe. “But how could the universe be devoid of love?” you wonder, perplexed. “I’ve never experienced anything more real than the love I felt towards that poor woman…how could it be an illusion?!” So, still dreaming, still taking the form of God, you call upon your omniscience (so as to produce an answer), and discern that love in this universe is merely a means to an end; a useful tool by which the survival and reproduction of the human species is ensured—well, not really the human species; rather, the DNA inside each individual member of the species, for neither the individuals themselves nor the species matter; the universe itself is ambivalent to them both; it cares not whether they die or live; whether they hate or love. 

Then, as God, you reflect on the nature of your own existence, and realize that the only reason you came into existence way back when, at the very dawn of space and time, was because those individual members of the human species, not to be outdone in foolishness, loved one another to such an unadvisable degree that they decided to place their hope in you, the greatest of all beings — you, who could then validate that love; you who could then make that love come true; you who could then make that love last forever. Upon realizing this, a wave of terror rushes through you, because you gaze upon the state of human affairs, and see that individuals no longer prioritize that foolhardy yet wholesome love of fellow man. What’s more, you (the human version), in loving that poor woman, were the last person to place their faith in that love which had, way back when, at the very dawn of space and time, allowed God to exist. And now that your faith has been vanquished, God, as you have dreamed him for the last indeterminate interval of time, is dead. 

Immediately upon the death of God, you slip back into lucidity. The snow continues to fall, now covering most of your limp body, which is, for all intents and purposes, also dead, though your organs cling to life, much like a patient in an irreversible coma — such is the effect of life devoid of love. An unknown interval of time passes. You begin to feel something… something warm… “a blanket, possibly?” Then, a pair of arms wraps around your torso and pulls you towards their own. The stranger presses tightly, clinging to you, and in that moment, a flicker of warmth passes between the two of you, like one candle, still alight, providing the flame for another, since vanquished. You begin turning your head, but in that very moment…

You wake up. You’d fallen asleep on the edge of your bed. The shade is propped open just a touch. You peek outside — it’s dark, and still very much snowing. You sit up, covered in sweat. Feeling compelled, but for a reason unknown to yourself, you walk over to your desk, open your journal and jot down the following:

I didn’t save her. She saved me.

With hatred still very much in my heart,

T.W.