In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered,
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”
- Stephen Crane (HT: Abraham Piper on the DG Blog)

I should have known my weaknesses by then. The times had passed and the evenings had grown dim, but the blood in my veins burned hot for that which I treasured, and as I burned hot, my heart quickly found its way to what I told it to love. She came to me in those fall days. Lady Lust was in my heart and on my mind, and as I drew further from home I still heard the calls of my fair lady, calling to me in the streets, calling to me to return. I heeded not her calls, being consumed in the desires I had enslaved myself to. I was a wretch.

Self-hatred consumes me still. Four and eighty years I have tread the earth, six and fifty of those in ignorance and blasphemy. My horrible deeds weigh upon me now, and even the thoughts of this dying atheist cry out against him, protesting his stupidity. And it is for this reason: Love has a way of getting ahold of you. When guilt and shame are gone, few will find that they know Love either, but Love has a way of chastening a person, or of making them feel the greatest regret, sorrow, and pain - even if they will not turn from the things that keep them from Love… If only Love were but unnecessary. If only I had never known Love before, so that I might at least have enjoyed my filth for but a little while longer.

The armored guard, my keeper, is here now. Rays of sunlight burst in upon me. My skin crackles in the sun; it has become so accustomed to darkness that to have any light upon it is a misery, a torture. He wears metal armor, and as he moves towards me, the sound of the clinking of armor, the grating of metal upon metal, is too much for me to bear; for the sound of anything is an offense against my will, with which I have made myself deaf. The smell… Oh the smell! I smell myself now. The armored man smells of rosewater and lilac, but I am truly a wretch indeed. I am but a fool. And the taste… My foul breath beats upon my tongue, tasting of worms and maggots. How can I still refuse to turn from my wretched, pitiful way, even now when it will kill me this very day?

I am lifted, my frail arms straining under the weight of my own body. I am broken, and dead. How can this guard allow himself to touch me? The saint and the sinner, the servant of righteousness and the slave to sin. I have known my own misery; isn’t it enough to let me wallow in it? The arrogant saint! He is entitled to judgment, and I can’t help but detest the absence of misery from his visage.

Next I wake I’m at the gallows. The crier justly condemns me for all my evils past and present (for as they say, sin never leaves your side, but ever follows you to the end, like a hound hunting you down.) “Lust! Pride! A lying tongue and a wicked heart that hates its gracious Maker! Constant sorrow is not enough for this man, but only death!” My accuser stands beside me, calling the blackness of my heart out into the light. I resent him. His claims are just, and the whole thing is driven by the hatred for myself that consumes me, and thus I cannot separate myself from the pride of knowing that those who should be bowing and worshiping me will now hang me.

And then my neck is in the noose, and I am standing above the door that will drop me in so short a time. Next to me another hangs. Yet he has no crier. No one has accused him. His face, bloated and blue; his eyes picked at by birds. What a horrible fate; what a pitiful man. Two days dead and having thought he was a savior. If only God would cede his position, share it with me. But this man will not share. He will not share in the act of being murdered unjustly. That is for the perfect only, and I know I cannot escape my chains. Before I am hung, I am given my chance at last to speak once before I am resigned to Hell. It is no word that leaves my mouth, but spit for the man’s face, and in that very moment the rope is pulled and my soul set free, to suffer eternally.