This morning, I was thinking about the abyss. I used to think the abyss was standing at the edge of a deep and immense darkness, one from whom I could hear echoes of rocks that I'd knocked off the edge as I sat down, my legs dangling.
That's not really the abyss for me. See, even in the dark, the immensity of the deep has a Godlike feature, a singular beauty that reminds me of the distance between the stars.
No. That's not the abyss. It isn't true hell.
For me, hell is a rickety elevator that's crowded with the heat of a dozen people. They would be alternately whining in that special tone Nick has when he's tired, talking about their diet and exercise regime, or about the latest methods of computer networking. In my own personal abyss, each and every one of the dozen people I share this elevator with are wearing their own version of Axe cologne. Ordinary sweat would be a blessed relief.
And there are four carat diamonds and gold dust raining down upon us from above. That would cause the diet-speaking of the humans in the elevator to agitate to their knees and the whole place would sway and shudder. The elevator to the Empire State building is something like this, except it has a great deal of fresh air blowing through the cracks, much more than my Axe-laden personal hell. Then, when the women had settled down and stopped pushing me into yet another greasy shoulder - did I mention that all the women would be wearing camisole tops so contact would be unavoidable - the whole place would begin to fill with crude oil, the kind that wells up and makes men rich when it fouls their back yards. When it had reached my chin, my arms would become pinned and it would be difficult to turn my head to see who had a foot on the back of my neck. I might gasp for breath for a moment, but the feel of the Axe cologne would make even that a living hell.
What is your personal hell?
Thank you for listening, jules
That's not really the abyss for me. See, even in the dark, the immensity of the deep has a Godlike feature, a singular beauty that reminds me of the distance between the stars.
No. That's not the abyss. It isn't true hell.
For me, hell is a rickety elevator that's crowded with the heat of a dozen people. They would be alternately whining in that special tone Nick has when he's tired, talking about their diet and exercise regime, or about the latest methods of computer networking. In my own personal abyss, each and every one of the dozen people I share this elevator with are wearing their own version of Axe cologne. Ordinary sweat would be a blessed relief.
And there are four carat diamonds and gold dust raining down upon us from above. That would cause the diet-speaking of the humans in the elevator to agitate to their knees and the whole place would sway and shudder. The elevator to the Empire State building is something like this, except it has a great deal of fresh air blowing through the cracks, much more than my Axe-laden personal hell. Then, when the women had settled down and stopped pushing me into yet another greasy shoulder - did I mention that all the women would be wearing camisole tops so contact would be unavoidable - the whole place would begin to fill with crude oil, the kind that wells up and makes men rich when it fouls their back yards. When it had reached my chin, my arms would become pinned and it would be difficult to turn my head to see who had a foot on the back of my neck. I might gasp for breath for a moment, but the feel of the Axe cologne would make even that a living hell.
What is your personal hell?
Thank you for listening, jules
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