"On What Is True," part 11

As you know, it is all still true that on this day, at this very moment, the greatest storm arrived. It was the final or greatest consequence of the man's divine incompetence. The storm had no purpose. It simply had to come. It was hell on earth. The winds blew so hard they knocked the tree over and uprooted the dead man buried beneath. For a second the electrical energy and kinetic ferocity of the storm brought a glimmer of inner life into the dead man. He saw his storm in that brief but for his dead soul eternal instant. "MY STORM," he thought, "my storm, you come for me, no death can escape you, and here I am at your complete mercy, lifeless and dead all I am; you rip at me and I have no animation to resist. I am your meaningless puppet, not worthy of pity but only disgust. How long will you rage? Why can't I die? Why is pain no different from me?" The storm, not one to stay silent replied, "your storm is inside you. You are the storm. Your rage of pain is your undivine eternal damnation. You are worthy not even to enter hell. This is you. And it gets worse." How I wish this were untrue, how I wish and wish and wish. But it's so very, very true, is it not, my friend? Is it not?