The True Story of Heaven and Hell

As of late it has become apparent that the prolix of my beating center is not fighting to preserve, but to delay my grasp of wisdom. Here I have sat, on the marble stair, peering into the eyes of the clerk of the gate to the library of infinite knowledge, and yet, his words have so misled me that I have become content with what lies he spins. His hands point only to himself, and his words glorify the same. While there beneath his feet, behind his flowing garments, struck deep into the immoveable tablet of existence is hewn the answer that, as proven by the condition eternity has been too weak to soften, displays with the utmost confidence, the truth that we have so dolefully sought. As I rise to the clerk in my path, so should each man with breath in his body, and soul in his breath, to dispel him of his post, for he is not the master of knowledge which he professes to be, but is a servant unto himself, who wishes for good to be delivered to him at the expense of all who he denies the truth. His purpose, as each of you have witnessed, is to bring honor for the works that he names virtue. So many of us are enticed by his most beautiful ways. The words laced with gold, the gifts with all pleasurable things which we desire. Yet, do not be mistaken. His works and his gifts do not bring you to the doors which you wish to enter, but they preoccupy your minds as a rattle to a child. Do not revel in these blessings, but look at the feet of the one who is leading you. Beneath them is the placard which will certainly lead you to solace. But do not take my word for it. You have sat on your stair the same as I. We, together, have grown accustomed to the hymns of what the most beautiful clerk names truth. You must only ask him why he bars you from entering you palace. He will have not a word to say in contrition. His power was forever in deception. His despotism, imagined. Now, behold the truth which he has delivered to your wanting hands. As you have risen from the stair you have sent him to the jasper fortress which is Hell. Take rest, and study the tiles of all honesty and be amazed. Now, you and I together have seen that which the graceful body once hid away. The truth, so ultimate, that we would each do whatsoever we might to prevent its exposition. And now, here it is, the truth I read, beneath the feet of a guardian dethroned.1

For all time it has been speculated where we might go when we die, yet not so many strive to grab at that knowledge in the most fruitful way; as would be reasonable for such a creature as mankind. It is only natural. Fear, that is. Fear of the doom which is promised us by others. Fear of the pain which might prelude our ultimate freedom. And yet it is fear too, that drives us to hope for an ending. The fear of ignorance, which I may say, is among the greatest fears of all. It is this most powerful fear that has perverted mankind, and invented its own decline. For, this fear in the simple mind, which is in the presence of a seductress, builds for itself monuments of fabrications. And, I fear, that the populace has been defeated. This is why you and I have taken by force our knowledge at hand. Yet, what have we earned? What prize is it to know the fate that has been revealed? You see now the dilemma of the clerk. We share in it. Look now behind you, and see that again there is a patron on the stair which you have left. What justice would there be in giving them the cursed knowledge? In sharing with them you’re burden? No goodness would come of it. Your soul would no sooner be freed of its total perplexion. So, when the patron of the library asks, what will you divulge? Is it not better in the course of a life to know security, even false security, than to know dread? And eternal dread, so great it may not be escaped save…one path? Clearly, you must shield the mind of this patron from the sufferings which truth will bring him. Yet, what possible deterrence might stay his inquisition for all time? We must quickly quiet him, lest he too be impaled on the stake of truth. His mind is now as ours had been. Perhaps we should do as the clerk before us had done. Yes. We must. Speak to your patron and tell him thus, that through the doors is endless anguish, and if he departs into the void he will find the same. That, at present, he is in his heaven. These words will hold his step. For ages we will guard him, looking to the door, and to the void, with the knowledge of ultimate fear and dread that has come of our desire. Forever concealing from the patron, the truth beneath our feet, instructing him in the ways of our own majesty, for should we lapse, our efforts would have been for naught. Our work will never end, and our toil will be the only way by which we might take pleasure, even if in the slightest part, out of our existence. It is better far, to suffer injustices than to deliver them. Even as our illusory heaven is deceit, it is the most kind of any told. Our post does not allow us to contemplate. It has been said for us clearly by the tile which we stand on, that we are a shield, buffeting with all our strength the pain of all hells. The hell of suffering, which lies beneath. The hell of bliss, which lies above. The hell of oblivion, which lies in non-existence, which is the source of the greatest fear. The choice of our predecessor was the hell of bliss. Yet, I fear it more than any. Much nicer is the hell of oblivion. Why? It is no mystery to you or I. The greatest hell is the hell of oblivion, greater even than the hell of bliss, the hell of ultimate knowledge and endowment. That hell is as the hell of suffering. Only it has a formidable guise. Reward. Treasure. All those things of earthly joy. Those are in the hell of bliss. Yet…we know, you and I. For, what is pleasure, but the acquisition of that which is desired? Yes, in that hell one might receive any of their greatest dreams and more. What a wretched place that hell. Every desire is answered without delay, until soon, one knows no desire. For ages, for millennia even, this hell will entertain, yet hell is not for ages or millennia. Hell is for the incomprehensible sentence that is eternity. One may not even endure for a third of a thousandth of this span without suffering all anguish. There, in the hell of bliss, tedium is inescapable. Not by death, as its inhabitants, prisoners, have died long ago. Not by ascension, for there is no place higher. In a third of a thousandth of the time of eternity, each cursed spirit will earn all knowledge great and small, of the workings of all things, and certainly, of the choice they ought to have made. The torments of the hell of bliss grow swifter than the most wretched affliction of pain. Each instant is an incessant reminder of the void which lies ahead. All feats are dubious, as any may achieve them. Companionship too is lost to the creatures of this hell, for there is not a blemish among them to separate one person from another. Desire to be with one is as of desire to be with all, which is only a pleasure for so long. And that time of pleasure s depleted, no matter how slowly, as a flash before the span of eternity. Each intimate detail of all in the hell of bliss is known universally among them. There is no interest to motivate. In the hell of bliss, there is no thirst or hunger, but all is complete. It is truly the greatest land of anguish ever envisioned. Yet that is the vision of heaven in the mind of our patron. He wishes nothing more than to have answered all his questions and desires. Such folly as his seems puerile. Still, it was our folly to. And for our greed we have usurped the most wretched paradox. For us life is drivel, hell is hell, heaven even is hell. For us, existence is for another, who will one day find himself in the same position, asking himself, to which gate should I walk? Whom should I admit to freedom? Many have, and many will, walk to the passage, which leads to the library of ultimate wisdom. At the end of a journey, the traveler is most complete for a time. That is, until his legs ache from their rest, and desire again to be of use. The finite state of the blissful hell allows not a traveler to continue. Each place has been seen. All sounds, heard. All this, within a third of a thousandth, and even less yet, of a portion of eternity. After the pleasures are exhausted, one “blessed” might write for himself a new task. Games of grand scales. Tasks for which to pass the time. Then still, no sooner is the task begun, than it is finished. The aches for renewed purpose might lead one to hope for thirst, but no sooner is the captive parched, than he is quenched. Yes, my friend, that hell is one to be avoided. The false hell of bliss. The hell which was called heaven. But surely, you must think, that this state of malcontent is better than the realm of gnashing teeth, of endless pain. If you do, then you, surely, are mistaken. The hell of agony is of a different sort, but is in time to be preferred over the hell of bliss. There is no sickness in preferring its torments, for their pain offers something which their counterparts have not. That is purpose. Without absolute knowledge of the state of permanence one suffers, there is resolve. One “damned” receives the curse of a scourging agony, yet the most unparalleled gift of purpose. His mind, when not distracted, devotes itself to procuring freedom, and forever wrestles to know all that can be known of the pit which does not divulge its secrets. In the most final truth, the secrets which it holds are scarce: there is no escape, yet your fate will not be so maddening as of those in “heaven” above. Your pain will never increase or decrease, while the agony of those above grows to the most infinite imaginable. In a third of a thousandth of all eternity, you will have known as little more of your suffering as the day of its conception. Those are the secrets of the hell of flames. We know that pleasure is only from the acquisition of that which is good. Possessions are mere trifles, yet what might be had…that is treasure. Those lucky souls in hell have no single parcel to their name. Not in silver or in gold, in land or in property, not in love or in knowledge. To them, all things are treasures. For all time, all things are magnificent. No raise or fall in what is had will ever bring them pleasure. Theirs is a lot of tedium without true pain. The lot of those in the hell of bliss…that is a sad lot. For them, what is had forever rots. There exists nothing to be had beyond it. Nothing has been hidden from their grasp, and so they suffer. Here then, we should defer the patron. His intent is halted by deceit. So what are we? Sinners? Saints? Imbeciles? What reason do we have for defending this soul from what we cannot eternally protect him? Little I say. There is…one choice yet. The void. For me, it appears the least of all evils. What is your choice? Would you sooner send yourself to hell than bend to the total comfort of oblivion? A sick creature you are to desire such a fate, but my mind is my own and your soul yours. All of my greatest hopes are to become of the relentless void. Could you imagine a greater state? The void is a place where all thoughts are ended. Where no such thought as thoughts have or ever will exist. The body, gone. The labors of breath have ceased. No memories to tax your temperance. Regret and shame, hatred and anger, fear and lust, they are no longer. There is where I will go. Forgive me, but you must come with me, as our shared position does not divide. You and I are to forsake our patron, and each after he, fro those who wish, might have their wish, but later learn their fate. We, my friend and nemesis, must go willing to the void, which is the only relief of fear, there is no other choice. So come now, and we will walk to the edge of what can be known, and then-
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