©1993, Gayle Nastasi
Some people equate hell with an eternity of fire–that bottomless lake of flame and torture reserved for the minions of the devil. Personally, I think going to hell is like drowning in rice pudding. You think everything is sweet and creamy until you try to take a breath and suck a raisin up your nose. Everything just goes downhill from there.
Another misconception about hell is its sense of place. Hell isn’t a place at all, but a state of being. It’s the ancient Hebrew SHEOL– translated hell, translated death. Eternal death. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? A pitiless state of unbeing. Yeah, awful–but as bad as it sounds I’m still in a quandary over which I’d prefer: “sheol”, or what I am–have always been–shall always be.
I spoke ancient Hebrew once. And Mesopotamian and Sanskrit; Germanic; Gallic; Latin. . . . I’m sure some day I shall speak Venutian or Alpha Centauran–it’s all the same. I’m getting pretty sick of it all, really–not that I have a choice.
I’ve never had a choice. It’s been this way for as long as I can recall. One persona after another, going on and on and on. Sounds like a chipper existence, doesn’t it?
Eternal life? Oh–I see I’ve misled you. Sorry. No, hardly that. That would be too simple–like “Insert Tab A into Slot B”, you know? No, my existence doesn’t piece together quite so easily. Oh, don’t get me wrong–there are plenty of those wandering this earth. What, you didn’t know that? Why, sure–the eternal lifers, the ones who come back again and again to set things right for mankind. They’re the ones who make all the wonderful new discoveries, cure the diseases, benefit the human race over and over. There are legends about them, statues erected in communities that range from Atlantis to Manhattan. Of course, nobody realizes all those statues are of the same guy.
My kind don’t get the statues and honorary places in history. Oh no–instead of statues we get entire communities bent on destroying us forever. They burn our abodes around us and hang garlic on their front doors. Instead of carving our names in stone, they want to gouge out our hearts with sharpened sticks.
Eternal death–eternal life; neither label fits our kind. Undead? No, that doesn’t work, either. I’ve been dead plenty of times. I just don’t seem to stay that way for very long.
You know what the worst part of this is, though? The food. The same old thing meal after meal. Matter of fact, my stomach’s growling right now, so I’m going to have to cut our conversation short and hit the streets. Wonder who’s on the menu tonight?
