Inferno

Do you wrestle with dreams?

Do you contend with shadows?

Do you move in a kind of sleep?

Time has slipped away.

Your life is stolen,

You tarried with trifles,

Victim of your folly.

                                                                        Dirge for Jamis on the Funeral Plain

                                                                        From “Songs of Muad’Dib”

Dirge noun – A lament for the dead, especially one forming part of a funeral rite.

If I were to die now, I’d go straight into Hell – and not just any Hell, but the ones with eternal flames forever scorching your soul, never burning your flesh, and yet leaving you in eternal anguish. The Hell of the Abrahamic religions.

I’m not a believer in sin. I see them as mere moral transgressions, nothing to do with the Divine. Which is hilarious because sin is unlike the dwarves, clad in leaves and dancing under the moonlight, that my 37-year-old neighbor swore she saw on her way back home around 2:38AM. Sin is real. It manifests in the acts that disrupt the divine order – the Cains of the world, the King Sauls, the Pharaohs, and the Israelites lost in the desert. The ones who ignored the Watchful Eye in the sky, oblivious to the judgment that await them.

But I’m not going to Hell because I didn’t follow the 10 commandments or because I haven’t stepped foot in a church for years. I will go to Hell because I’m not writing.

The last time I wrote something new was in February. It was difficult. Almost a physical pain sensation; picking up the pen, writing out the words, and watch something beautiful come out. I knew I could do it. I’ve done it before, but it was asking for too much. It was asking for excellence, for perfection, for greatness, on the first try. Maybe it wasn’t the writing asking for that, maybe it was me asking that of myself. I asked too much; set up a ridiculous standard and when I didn’t meet it, which was always, I go right back to that safe space that comes with writing only in your head. I demanded perfection from myself, and it was excruciating. With each word I fail to properly use dragging me deeper into that sense of failure that eventually paralyzed me.

I have no idea how this is going to turn. I had an idea; write about how neglecting to utilize my talent feels like the only cardinal sin. The only reason I will end up in hell if I were to die today. But now, it doesn’t seem so organized. But I’m learning to trust the process. To not seek greatness on the first attempt. To not seek perfection. But to find that little edge, to get just a little bit better after each post. To feel the growth coming. To be comfortable with editing a piece a thousand times.

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Matthew 25 v 24-25: “ He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you scattered no seed,  so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here, you have what is yours.’”

Matthew 25 v 30: “And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’”

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Talents, really are gifts from God. They are divine. I like to think of them as God’s stamp of approval and a sign of his unwavering faith in us. Sort of like a “I wouldn’t give you the ability to craft worlds out of mere words if I didn’t know you could build an entire universe.” So, to let that gift perish. To let it sink because of doubt, because of fear, because you simply couldn’t put in the work is an insult. It’s more than just self-doubt, it’s a rejection of the faith placed in you by God. A degrading remark to the Creator, telling him that “You are wrong. I’m not enough, never going to be. Using me as a vessel for that gift was a mere waste.” And what do you do with waste? You discard it. Preferably into a pit of fire so it will be erased from existence.

For me, the failure to honor the gift you are given is a cardinal sin, and by not writing or creating, I was committing a sin not just against myself, but against God.

Why am I writing this? Simple, I do not want to go to hell. I refuse to let my gifts wither away, for like Sisyphus - I will push my boulder of self-doubt up the hill. But not out of punishment, rather, a dedication and devotion to excellence and my Creator. Doing everything, I can to tell the stories in my head, to create the worlds I want to. To be the perfect vessel for this gift I’ve been blessed with.

I’ll be writing more, I’ll be writing better, and I’ll tell the stories that should be told.